


The Last Hunger Games

by czm



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Pentatonix, Superfruit, ptx - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 45
Words: 72,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5771077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/czm/pseuds/czm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Capitol falls, and the embittered districts demand its elite as tributes. Pentatonix are cast into the arena and forced to compete in the Hunger Games. Will any of them survive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I wake to the sound of riots. Who riots at nine in the morning? I threw a party last night and fell asleep barely five hours ago. I'm still wearing yesterday's clothes, and I haven't even pulled off my shoes. I need more beauty sleep. The noisome hordes pass under my window, but their vitriol is numb by the time it reaches the top floor.

I mumble at the room and it finds me a soft, slow, repetitive track to muffle the sounds from outside. As I drift off again, my mind loses touch with my hearing, and the song shifts in my dreams. It slips into a quicker tempo and adds a new layer at every measure. It's happy, intricate, and beautiful. There is no bass or depth, only overwhelming, incessant sweetness. Occasional unfinished melodies draw me into the song and distract from its hollowness. I try to hum a harmony, but the song resists it. I switch to the melody instead and follow where the music leads me.

My fire alarm goes off and it's like the song never existed. Putrid black smoke is billowing from a stack of tires in the street. Even from twenty stories up, I can see that the crowd is livid. A flickering orange light flies through the air, a window breaks, and flames burst out of the opening. Angry people are flowing by in unlimited supply. They're from the districts. The Capitol keeps them all safe, well-fed, organized, and comfortable, so it's a complete mystery why so many are shouting so loudly. It's not as if they're starving or oppressed.

Scott pounds his fist loudly on my door. He knows he doesn't need to knock, and he never does. "Who are you and what have you done with Goldilocks?" I call sleepily. He keeps banging on the door like he wants to break it down. I'm glad I went easy on the alcohol last night. This would be the worst morning of my life to have a hangover. "It's unlocked!" Suddenly it swings open and my room is flooded with bodies. I'm hurled roughly into the air and passed from person to reeking person. I hear every fragile possession of mine crashing on the marble floor as I'm swept away like a crowd surfer on a mosh pit. Rough hands are pushing me from every side. My vision is filled with strong, sinewy arms, and I can scarcely tell the men's from the women's; they're all filthy, powerful, and impossibly thin. Why don't they eat more? They tug at me like they want to pull me apart. It's not how I planned to die.

A strong hand grabs onto my ankle and I try to kick it off, but I can't escape. It's already holding on for dear life and cutting off my circulation, but it squeezes harder for a moment. My heart sinks. It's Scott. They have him too. I'm curled up in a ball, but he's stretched out and flailing, trying to hit people but unable to free his limbs. Suddenly he goes limp and I feel an uncertain pause in the bodies beneath me. Immediately Scott swings his other arm around and grabs onto me with both hands. Chaos resumes. Scott shouts at me, but I can't hear him over the people. I squeeze my eyes shut and curl up tighter. It will be over soon, I tell myself.

It isn't. We're yanked from side to side for what feels like hours as the mob slowly makes its way deeper into the city, leaving fire and ruin in its wake. Every inch of me is bruised, but Scott is still clinging to me. Everything burns at my senses and I feel dizzy. I don't recognize where we are anymore until I see the Pinnacle Arena in the distance. We sold it out on tour once, and we were honored to perform here again about nine months ago at the opening ceremonies of the Quarter Quell. I try to imagine that the shouts from all around are from our wild fans. I've come to secretly hate the catcalls, the people screaming, "Marry me, Mitch!" or "You're an angel!" Now, though, I would give anything to be surrounded by wild strangers who adore me instead of wild strangers who might kill me at any moment.

As we draw nearer, the crowd grows denser and I see other captives. Some are held aloft like Scott and me, and some are being shoved around inside the masses. It's easy to see by their clothes that most of them are rich, and by their familiar faces that many of them are famous. Just a few years ago, the mob would have passed me by. They probably recognized us because of our Hunger Games performance. I cringe at the thought that they might have Kirstie, Kevin, and Avi too.

The people slow into gridlock as we approach the entrance, but they propel Scott and me through faster than before. We pass through a dark tunnel between the bleachers, and they deposit us abruptly onto the arena floor. I'm on all fours, and Scott is face down on the ground, exhausted but shaking with adrenaline. His knuckles are white and his grip on me is as tight as ever. I lay a hand on his, and he reluctantly lets go. "Scott. Scott, look at me. It's gonna be fine. We're okay now." Clearly we aren't, but at least they aren't holding us anymore. "Sit up. Breathe slowly." I hum gently and he collects himself. I've stayed calm so far, but now a rush of panic crushes me. Everything turns into a thick buzz and all I can hear is my heartbeat. The song I'm humming twists gracelessly off pitch; I can't hear it anymore, but I feel it go wrong in my throat. My vision turns cloudy and then completely dark. I'm going to pass out.

For now, though, I'm conscious. I know it doesn't make sense to faint, and I'm frustrated with myself. It's not a good time for this. It's terrifying not being able to see my hand in front of my face, so I shut my eyes. I lie all the way down on my back and breathe through my nose. I count. Scott picks up my tune, and after a minute, I can sit up again and crack my eyes open.

The stands are overflowing with rioters from the nearby districts, and a hundred other people from the Capitol are scattered across the arena, with still more trickling in. I don't have even the slightest idea what's going on. "Scott! Mitch!" Most of the people from the Capitol are as dazed as I am, but a few are standing. Kevin is not only standing, but rushing toward us and leaping over people to get here. Avi is striding just behind him. "Are you okay?" Kevin asks breathlessly. "Where's Kirstie?"

"We haven't seen her," Scott frowns. I gasp and point. She's right ahead of me, being shoved into the arena. She trips forward into the open space and catches herself with her arms. She's covered in blood.


	2. Chapter 2

I start to pass out all over again, but Scott leaps up and runs after Kevin and Avi toward Kirstie. I have to lie down again to give my brain the oxygen it needs, but I turn my head toward them and try to make out what's happening. Kevin pushes the others back and immediately starts looking for the wound. Scott and Avi tower over helplessly. Kirstie waves her hands and their posture eases. Kevin, still crouched over Kirstie with his back toward me, points with his index finger at Avi's chest and then with his thumb over his shoulder. He remembered me. Avi strides back toward me and I let him prop me up as we make our way back to the others. "She's okay. Her dog attacked the rioters. It's not her blood. She's okay." I can breathe again. I'm tired, sore, and mentally exhausted, but I think I'm capable of walking again, so I pull myself together and start supporting my own weight. When we return, Scott and Kevin are sitting on either side of Kirstie with their arms over her shoulders. Scott is crying in relief and Kevin asks her one more time if she's absolutely certain she's unhurt.

We sit down to form a tight circle. For a while, we say nothing. I wonder what they're all thinking. Scott and Kirstie are probably as confused as I am, but Kevin somehow seems to understand, and I wonder how much Avi comprehends. "What's going on?" I'm looking at Kevin, but, as usual, Scott answers.

"I literally have no idea. What gives them the right to drag us out of our beds and halfway across the city, not to mention burn everything to the ground? Are they out of their minds? Are they protesting about the tributes or something? Sure, it's sad and all, but the Games have been going on for decades. You'd think they'd be used to it! Who even let them into the Capitol? It's disgraceful."

Kevin presses his hands into his face and sighs. "They're not rioting about the tributes. You all don't even realize what it's like out there. Panem isn't normal. Your families all come from here, but in other countries, things are different. Not all governments decide what you can and can't watch and read and learn, not all capitals are full of citizens who don't work a day in their lives, and not all countries treat most of their populations like slaves." Scott opens his mouth to object, but Kevin anticipates his argument and explains. "The people they broadcast at the reapings aren't real; they're dressed up and told to celebrate. The happy workers you see in commercials are actors from the Capitol, pure propaganda. The real people of the districts are overworked and hungry."

Scott looks incredulous, but Avi is staring at his hands and Kirstie is shifting uncomfortably. "Do you ever wonder," Kevin asks, "why I keep pushing us to make music when we could just kick back our heels and live off the districts? It's not just because I love writing and performing. It has nothing to do with wanting more fame or money. It's because I feel guilty when I'm not working. The people in those bleachers work all day every day until they die, and they still don't have enough to live on." His speech has a forceful rhythm to it. His nostrils are flared and his lips are twisted in disgust. He looks up at us. "How did you not realize that?" he demands. Suddenly he softens. "I honestly thought you knew, or you at least had some idea, and you just didn't care."

It takes a moment for that to sink in. If he believes life is as awful for the districts as he's saying, and he's thought for years that we were indifferent, how could he even stand to look at us? Clearly it's not because he's indifferent. I can't understand why he hasn't talked about this before, but now I begin to see just how much he cares. It's what has driven him all this time. Everything he does begins to make more sense. He lives in a lush apartment because the Capitol gave it to him, but his furnishings are simple, his meals are plain, and his wardrobe is, by my standards, dirt cheap. I always wondered what he did with all his money. Did he have some way of sending it to people who needed it more? Can he even communicate with them? "Listen," he continues. "They're rioting because we've oppressed them for over 75 years, and they've finally torn down the Capitol. Our government is gone. G-O-N-E, gone. It has been for weeks now. President Snow was under house arrest. If my information is solid, he was going to be executed today, but instead of killing him, Katniss shot her own President, Alma Coin, the leader of the whole rebellion." How could I have been ignorant of something so monumental? Even when the riots where going on right outside my window, though, I turned away and tried to sleep through it. What does that say about me?

"That's when the riots reached the city," Kevin continues. "Nobody is in charge anymore. I will not be even a little bit surprised if these people erect a guillotine or a gallows here and now to execute us one by one."

"That's morbid," Scott and I say automatically.

"I'm not joking. They don't teach real history here, and you wouldn't pay attention even if they did, but you would not believe the things that people will do when they're abused for as long as the districts have been. It's a wonder this hasn't happened sooner."

"How do you know any of this?" I ask. "What makes you think it's true?" I'm already starting to believe it, but I don't want to.

"You can't say much on the official international communication channels. One word out of line and your correspondence gets cut off permanently. Instead, I tune in to an illegal radio relay network to communicate with my extended family overseas. They give me an outside perspective." Every time I think I've grasped how incredible Kevin is, he proves me very, very wrong.

The stadium lights switch off and on, and a restless, broken silence falls over the arena. "Ladies and gentlemen!" A tall, sunburned district woman is clutching a microphone like an apple and standing in a doorway. "We could kill every last selfish, greedy, pitiless soul in the Capitol for what they've done to us, but we're not here for war. We're here for peace and for payment. Today marks the reaping of the last annual Hunger Games!"


	3. Chapter 3

Kirstie gasps and claps her hand over her mouth. Now her face has blood on it. I lean forward and hug her as hard as I can. People surround us and start dragging us apart by our armpits. She bites an arm and kicks hard at the people behind her. Her eyes are locked pleadingly with someone behind me, but nobody comes to help. Scott and Avi land a few punches, but more people converge on them. I wriggle free and headbutt someone who lunges at me. He falls backward. "RUN!" Avi bellows from behind me. I don't want to leave them behind, but I sprint anyways. I don't want to have to kill them, and I don't want them to have to kill me.

The doors are all blocked by hordes of people and I don't know where I'm running to. Maybe there's somewhere I can hide. Maybe there's a trapdoor on the stage. I dodge and swerve as fists swing at me. There's a guard rail ahead, and stairs behind it. I jump over it at full speed and tumble down the steps to a landing. I'm in a narrow space with a door in front of me. It's locked. I ram into it futilely. An arm reaches around my neck and squeezes until I can't breathe. I try to go limp and pretend I've passed out, but I feel like I'm dying. I can't stop flailing. Spots float before my eyes and I gasp for breath. The grip loosens a little and I push hard off the ground, ramming my head into my assailant's chin. He falls over backwards and I hear his head hit the stairs. He's in the way. I push off his chest with full force to propel myself up the stairs. I feel ribs give way under my foot, and his howl of pain tells me he's still dangerous. I take the rest of the steps four at a time.

Overhead, the crowd is thunderous. I run along the perimeter of the arena, turning my head from side to side in search of another stairway or exit. My foot catches and I trip on a cord. It's attached to a microphone. I reel it in. I want to scream into it with as much volume as my breathless lungs can muster and deafen everybody here, but even if I could, it would only make them angrier. There's no escape. There's nothing I can do. All around me, young people are being dragged away and older people are sitting by watching silently. There are at least eight people from the districts in the arena turned toward me, but they've paused to see what I'll do with the mic. I sit. I whisper, "I'm sorry."

There's nothing I can say to make them believe me or care. I sing. There is no song for this, so I make it up. Long, slow, bitter notes, raw and imperfect, issue forth in deliberate succession. It's the harmony to the song I dreamt this morning, the depth that was missing. It's sorrowful and angry, dripping with regret. One voice isn't enough for it, but I don't see Scott, Kevin, Avi, or Kirstie anymore. They keep dragging people away, and they herd the extras into a corner, but they let me continue. Some of the audience start to shout at me, but it just makes the song feel more complete. I feel the end approaching from a few measures away, and I don't try to put it off. There's no point. I let the last note trail off into silence and I whisper once more, "I'm so sorry." I've said and done everything I can, and it's not even close to enough, but I'm glad I got the chance. It doesn't change anything, but it still feels like the most meaningful thing I have ever done.

I stand up and let them take me away. They surround me like an entourage. They don't even touch me. It's like they think there's some kind of understanding between us. There isn't. I don't even understand myself right now. I'm angry, of course. They're going to make me kill people, or, more likely, die. I won't last five minutes. Furthermore, they've taken my friends, practically my family, and there's nothing I can do for them. This is my fault. I hang my head and hug my arms. I've been ignorant my whole life, not because I had to be, but because I wanted to be. The Capitol fed me and entertained me, so I played along, and now I'm going to die, and my friends will die with me.

I look back out at the crowd as I walk. They're staring at me intently. It feels bizarrely familiar. It's like the dreams I have when I'm nervous about a big concert, where I don't know any of the lyrics and everyone is staring at me, waiting for me to begin. A young woman catches my eye. She jerks her head back and holds up a fist with her elbow bent: chin-up, be strong. I stand a little straighter. The audience leans forward. This is nothing like the performances where people jump up and down when I so much as look at them and scream when I blow a kiss, but I have everyone's attention. This might be my chance to win some of them over.

What am I thinking? They hate me. They have no reason to forgive me. But Kevin forgave me. He was outraged, but then, without even berating me, he just let it go. Maybe connecting with these people isn't entirely impossible. Maybe if I can do that, they'll support me and I'll last just a little longer. Maybe I can win a bit of goodwill for all of us, but I'm walking a fine, fine line. Right now, they don't know what to think of me. It's better than when they hated me, but if I offend them, there's still nothing to stop them from ripping me to pieces before I even leave the arena. We're walking slowly, but I don't have much time before we reach the exit. I don't know if it's the right thing to do, but I look up. I pick a person, I make eye contact, I hold for a few seconds, and I nod just barely. I pick someone else on the other side. I can't make out the faces on the far end of the arena, but I cover as much area as possible before I go. They'll remember me, and maybe they'll think, "He looked my way. He's a person. I don't want him to die."

Just as we reach the door, I turn back toward the people. They destroyed my city, they dragged me through the streets, they took my friends, and they're going to put us all through unthinkable horrors, but they are not the happy, stupid pack animals I thought they were. I never noticed it before today, but some of them, many of them, have a kind of dignity that I have never encountered before. I need them to know that I respect them. My fans just want to hear me say I love them, and I comply, and it makes them much too happy. These people need more than that. I hold one forearm behind my back and one across my waist, I stand with my feet together, and I bow. It's not the grandiose bow of a soloist or the perfunctory bow of a servant. It isn't deep or slow-I don't want them to think I'm mocking them-but it isn't shallow either. I'm too afraid to look up. With my eyes fixed on my shiny black shoes, I straighten again and walk out quickly. I feel sick.

The sound of cracking ribs echoes in my mind. I can't shut it out. The thought of my own bones splintering fills my head. I always feel like I should turn away when someone dies in the Hunger Games, but I never do. I watch it again in slow motion, horrified but fascinated. Now I'm paying the price. I can picture myself dying a hundred different ways in gross detail. I don't even try to stop because I'm afraid I might start imagining what will happen to Scott, Avi, Kevin, and Kirstie.


	4. Chapter 4

They they take me to the high-rise where the tributes always stay. Guards from the districts stand outside the door. My escorts walk in with me, and three of them step into the elevator with me. I wonder what this is like for normal tributes. The decor is gaudy and cheap, but maybe to an impecunious district child it would seem grand. They would probably be met by attendant at the door. No doubt someone would normally sit behind the front desk, and perhaps the elevator would have an operator. I'd expect paparazzi and a news crew too. Because the nation has just fallen into a state of total anarchy, though, it's just me.

A hoarse scream and a loud thud from overhead interrupt my thoughts. The lift is creeping silently and much too slowly toward the top floor. The doors finally slide open and I see them.

More self-appointed guards line the walls. They outnumber the tributes three to one. Kirstie is hugging her knees and rocking gently back and forth. She's still covered in blood, but it's beginning to dry and crack. Her eyes are wet and her cheeks are covered in clumps of mascara. Scott is standing in a pile of splinters and furiously swinging wooden chairs into the wall. He screams again with no regard whatsoever for his precious vocal cords. Kevin is pacing with his hands pressed against the sides of his head and his eyes squeezed shut. Avi stretches out his arm and puts his hand on Scott's shoulder, but Scott cringes and turns away. That's when he sees me.

The last piece of the chair he's obliterating falls from his hand and he gasps. Kevin looks up briefly and then squeezes his head and his eyes still tighter and paces faster. Avi's face falls when he sees me. I didn't escape. Kirstie sobs and stands to embrace me, but Scott is already squeezing the air from my lungs. "You're alive," he breathes.

"Let go of me!" It sounds harsher than I intended, and Scott steps back. I know now why he shook off Avi's hand. We're enemies now, all of us. That's what they've done to us. Maybe if we stop acting like friends, it'll be easier when the time comes. Maybe Scott will be the one to kill me. It's a bittersweet thought, almost comforting. He would have to live with it for the rest of his potentially very short life, though, and I can't wish that on him. Scott looks astonished, but I can see understanding sink into Avi's face. He pulls me aside.

"Mitch." He tries to look me in they eyes, but I look down. "Now is not the time to push your friends away."

"It's sick. It's like naming the pig you're going to eat. We can't be friends anymore."

"We're not going to kill each other, Mitch. There is no way. We're going to fight for each other."

"What does it matter? We're still going to die. Best case scenario, one of us will make it out alive. What kind of a life will that be, Avi?" I don't even want to think about it.

"Our days are numbered. All we can do is make the most of them." Maybe that's comforting to him, but to me, it's sappy and revolting. There's no point in sugarcoating things. "Look at them," he continues. "They're not okay, Mitch. They need you."

Scott and Kirstie, just out of earshot, are looking up at me pitifully. Maybe Avi is right, but I'm going to lose them. I can hold on a little longer, but it will only make it hurt more at the end. I can't put my heart on the line like that. I don't have it in me to love them anymore. They're already dead to me. Even that isn't enough. It still hurts more than I can bear. I can close my eyes or open them. I can speak or be silent. I can cry or I can be comforting. No matter what I do, I am crushed, completely helpless. Nothing will do any good. There's no way to go on. My only options are horrible. My thoughts are poisonous, and they spin through my mind like a miserable fever dream.

I shift my mental perspective and look down on myself from above. I'm pathetic. The rest of my life is guaranteed to be wretched. There is no light at the end of the tunnel, only despair. There is only one choice that makes any sense, so I swallow and give myself permission to think about it. I can't. They'll stop me, and probably restrain me. What if I could, though? There must be a way if I put my mind to it. Supposing there is, I still don't want to. I'm doomed to spend the rest of my days in anguish and there is no hope for me, but, even so, there is no doubt in my mind that my life is intrinsically precious and I absolutely must keep it. That one idea, the will to live, is the only safe, solid concept I have. I anchor myself to it. I want to live.

Avi wraps his arms around me, and suddenly the rest is clear. I can't just wait for them to be taken away from me. I need to rip them from my life immediately. If I can't keep them, then I don't want them. I don't want to love them. I don't want to be emotionally invested in them. I despise them for standing by me. I hate them for loving me. I will fight with them and I will defend them, but only while I can afford to. For Avi, it might be enough to fight together, but even he knows that can only last so long. I am going to fight for myself. When the time comes, I am going to kill them.

Now that I know what I have to do, I don't feel so terrified. I can function again. "You're right, Avi." I hug him back, and we return together. It's surprisingly easy to act normally. They may not be there yet, but eventually they'll all come to the same conclusion I have, and they'll understand.

Scott's arms are crossed, he's grinding his teeth, and he is looking straight at me. He isn't pitiful anymore. He's angry. Usually I don't notice it, but right now I'm acutely aware of how incredibly tall and broad he is. There are still splinters of chairs strewn across the floor. He held on to me this morning. He fought off attackers in the arena while I ran away. He's been worried sick for me ever since he got back here. He tried to hug me and I shouted at him. Now he is rightly furious, and I'm scared even to look at him. He has never been this mad at anyone, much less me. He is truly formidable, and I hesitate before stepping within arm's reach of him, but this is one thing I know how to fix. Before he can open his mouth, I put my hands on his shoulders, I look him in the eyes, and I say, "Thank you, Scott."

He sighs. "I hate you."

"I hate you too." We almost smile.


	5. Chapter 5

All day we sit in a circle and tell each other comforting lies. "It's going to be okay." "They won't go through with this." "We'll find a way out together." When that's not enough anymore, we sing. The other tributes stare, but it doesn't matter. It's meant for us, not for them. Avi wanders from bass to melody and back. Kirstie finishes chords on dissonant notes. Scott stares at the wall and sings softly without changing his expression or moving his hands. Kevin weaves together snippets of classical songs with complicated, intricate bridges of his own invention. I sing tones between notes. There is no structure or arc, and we break every rule, but in each moment it has meaning.

Night comes and we go to our rooms. I know better than to try to fall asleep. I run my fingers gently over my fresh bruises. Innumerable lumps from elbows and fists coat my arms, my legs, and my back. My shoulder hurts from ramming into the door. A faint ring encircles my ankle, and I trace it around and around. Scott didn't make me feel safer or less scared, but it still means everything to me that he didn't let go. We were going to be friends for life. We've said it time and again. Was Brutus still Caesar's friend when he drove a dagger into him?

Will I even have a dagger? Maybe it will be a heavy rock. Will he fight back? Will he knock me out? Will he strangle me? Maybe I'll lead him into a trap. Maybe I'll give away his location. Maybe I'll feed him soup with nightlock in it. I still want someone else to be the one to do it, but I won't hesitate.

There's a gentle tap on the door, and it opens. Scott peers in. He sees that I'm awake and sits down on the edge of a table. His leg is bouncing up and down and he rubs his palms on his knees. He closes his eyes, then opens them and looks straight at me. He opens his mouth to speak. "I should have said this ages ago." My breath catches. Is this what I think it is? "I was afraid. Now, there's nothing left to lose and I might as well be honest." He's shaking.

This has been a long time coming. I always thought I would be the one to make the first move, if there ever was one. He knew that, and yet here he is, taking the risk.

The smart choice is obvious. I have to play along. I have to say yes. I speak as softly as I can. "No. I'm sorry. It's too late." There goes my best ally. There goes my best chance of survival. There goes my best friend.

I bow my head. I haven't cried since they took me, but I'm about to. Scott sighs. He doesn't sound angry, or even disappointed. He sounds... relieved. I don't understand that man. "You pass! You pass, Mitch!" He's laughing happily.

"Scott, it's okay to be upset."

"You were so weird when you came back. You wouldn't let me hug you. I was mad at first, but the more I think about it, the more I get it. But then suddenly you were perfectly normal again. You did literally everything I expected you to. It doesn't make sense to be so normal at a time like this. It was like the real you wasn't even here today, just someone pretending to be you. Does that make sense? It made me think you were acting, and that made me think you weren't being honest with us, and that made me worry. I'm sorry I didn't trust you."

"This was a test?"

His face straightens and he looks down. "I needed to know if you were just using me."

It was all an act. He lied to me. There's no way to know how much was true. That's not what matters, though. Like I said, it's too late. What matters is that the person I know better than anyone else in the world, sometimes better than myself, just lied to me, and he did it perfectly. He's no actor, so instead of trying to hide his nervousness about whether I would pass or leave him guessing, he let it show and he made it a part of the performance. He didn't even have to lie outright. I walked right into it. I thought that, of all people, I could trust Scott Hoying. I thought I knew him better. "And if I had said yes?"

"Then I would have spent the rest of my life wondering if you were going to stab me in the back. I might even have let someone kill you. Maybe I would have gone mad and killed you myself. I don't know."

It shouldn't bother me that he tricked me while I was thinking about murdering him with nightlock stew, but it stings. He took advantage of our closeness. He took advantage of my vanity. He put our friendship at risk. What if I had failed his test? I nearly did. He would have gone on lying, and I might not have realized until my last breath. I might never have realized. He didn't lie to me just because he didn't trust me. He lied because he wanted to trust me. Now, though, I can only trust him as long as he still trusts me because if he doesn't, I won't know until too late.

Maybe he's lying even now. The thought is repulsive. Does he lie to me all the time? Maybe he's only pretending I've "passed." After all, I never addressed his concern. He noticed I was acting too normally. How am I supposed to explain that in a way that isn't normal for me? I have to find some reason that's believable but unexpected. I'm not used to lying to Scott, or lying at all. What would he find natural but not expect from me? His own behavior is what comes most naturally to him. I see bruises on his knuckles and cuts on his hands, and I think of the people he punched in the arena and the chairs he smashed. The lie forms in my mind and expands layer by layer.

"You're right, Scott." Layer one: I tell him what he already believes. I draw him in. "You know me so well." Layers two, three and four: I flatter him, I bring up our relationship, and I imply that if I were lying, he would see right through me. "I was acting. It wasn't the real me. I didn't feel like I could be honest." He's leaning forward, clinging to my every word.

"The real me was furious," I continue. "The real me wanted to hurt someone. To make someone feel pain." Layers five, six, seven, eight: a confession, new information, something unexpected, something that looks real because it's a reflection of him and his own violent reactions. I reach out and hold his battered hands up to the light. Layer nine: caring.

"I don't punch people or smash up furniture. It would only remind me how small I am." Layer ten: vulnerability. "But today I wanted to say the most venomous things. I was so angry. I'm still angry." Layer eleven, layer twelve: personalize the lie, act broken. "It would have cut too deep. You can't imagine the awful things I would have said. I would have shattered the last of our hope and then mocked it. I would have seeded doubt and mistrust, hewn apart all our bonds, and spit on our friendship. It would have been wrong. I'm angry, but I'm not angry at you. The only people I can hurt with my words are the ones I don't want to hurt. That's why I held my tongue and acted how you expected me to."

I could stop here, but I don't. Scott just taught me a new trick. Instead of hiding his sweaty palms or trying to keep still, he let his nervousness add to his lie. I'm not nervous, but I am ashamed. I'm ashamed that I'm lying to Scott and I'm ashamed that it comes so naturally to me. I'm ashamed that I'm exploiting everything I know about him. I'm ashamed that I'm going to kill my best friend. I'm ashamed that I'm going to stab him in the back instead of telling him where we stand. I'm hiding it as well as I can, but obviously Scott can read me better than I can read him. I'm sure he can see it, so I use it.

"I'm angry at myself. This morning, while Kevin was being dragged off, while you were fighting, while Avi was being attacked on all sides, while Kirstie was digging her teeth deep into somebody's arm, I ran. I didn't look back. I left you all. I'm ashamed, so I'm angry, so I want to hurt people, and I'm ashamed of that too." This is the last layer, the most subtle and the most treacherous. Scott's going to comfort me and tell me I didn't do anything wrong. I'm going let him fix me and make it all better. Helping me will make him feel less powerless. He'll become protective. Scott doesn't deserve for me to use him like this, but as far as I'm concerned, the Games have already begun.

Maybe it's more than that. Maybe his lie wounded me more than I thought. It's too late, I tell myself again.


	6. Chapter 6

I wake. This is strange. I wasn't going to fall asleep. Why wasn't I going to fall asleep? Why am I in the wrong bed? Did I black out? I wish. My memories click into place and I want to scream, but I stop myself. Maybe the others are still asleep.

Normally I would sleep in, and I'm so tired that I'd be able to, but I'm afraid I might remember my dreams. My skin is crawling. I've been wearing the same clothes for at least 36 hours. I have more important things to worry about, but there's nothing I can do about them, so I find the shower and expertly spin the dials. The strawberry-scented water makes me homesick. Even though I stay until my fingers wrinkle, I still feel dirty.

I find a boring gray tunic in the closet and ask the television for the news. There's footage of yesterday's riots, or maybe today's, but it isn't shot from a helicopter or rooftop. It's a shaky video taken from inside the crowd. There are no Capitol TV reporters or talking heads. There's no spin, just images. I wonder what I would believe if the news were always like this.

I do push-ups as I watch. I've kept myself in good cardiovascular shape to sing my best, but I'll need to be on another level for the Games, and I only have three months to get there. I'll also need to gain weight so I have some fat to burn if I have to go a long time without food. Some of the tributes are younger than me and some older. Some are smaller and some bigger. I'm average, and that isn't good enough when only one of 24 gets to live. I want to live.

The TV changes to a shot of the arena from yesterday. The person holding the camera is talking to someone next to her. "Do you know how to work this? I think it's recording. I've never used a camera before." By her accent, she's from district one or two. Maybe she stole the camera from a home or a store during the riots. Slowly the center area begins to fill with people from the Capitol. The camera operator and her friend boo and hiss at them. Scott and I are thrown in. He lets go, I lie down, I get up. Avi and Kevin come to us. Kirstie enters. I lie down yet again. I have got to work out this dizziness problem if I want to survive. I bite my lips until they bleed. I breathe in the rusty scent. I think about blood pumping through my body and I think about it pouring from a wound. I'm going to have to get used to it.

The announcer declares the beginning of the Hunger Games, and the woman behind the camera cheers. People flood into the arena and start pulling out anyone under thirty. Among the five of us, Kevin is the first to go. He barely resists at all. He doesn't hit anyone. Scott and Avi knock out five people between them, but they're quickly surrounded. Kirstie lasts longer. After her first assailant runs away screaming, she goes unnoticed for a moment. She spits out his blood, pulls off her heels, and rubs at her makeup. She hunches her shoulders and traces lines onto her dirty face. At a glance, she looks much older than she really is. Not until they start running out of younger tributes do they notice her again, and by that time, there are a dozen people free to attack her. The older people in the arena watch silently, not wanting to risk being taken. I want to kill them even more than I want to kill the people who are dragging Kirstie away. In the video, though, I'm not even watching her. I'm ramming myself into a door, then fighting off a man who doesn't look nearly as huge as I remember him. I'm the last person still running, and the camera zooms in on me. "Who's that?" wonders the woman. I come back to the top of the stairs and people start running toward me from every part of the arena. I trip. I grab the microphone.

When I got back yesterday, I didn't tell the others anything about this. I'm going to have to, though, before they find out without me. On screen, I hug the mic and say, "I'm sorry." I was lucky it was turned on. Or maybe unlucky. I still don't know whether I made things worse for myself.

"Spoiled Capitol brat!" hisses the camerawoman. Not good.

I make a note to drop my Capitol accent and start dressing more like the people from the districts. "Spoiled Capitol brat!" I repeat. I keep saying it until I sound just like her. The little me on the television starts to sing. For a moment, the crowd is very quiet. I hadn't noticed that at the time.

"Who is he?" whispers the voice behind the camera.

"Who is he? Who is he? Who is he?" I whisper. On camera, I apologize again and they lead me away. I bow, and it cuts back to footage of riots. My arms give way. I was so engrossed that I forgot I was doing push-ups. I wish I could see and hear how they reacted. If they like me, I'll live longer. They might even send me help. If they hate me, the gamemakers will see to it that I die in pain.

There's a knock on the door, and I can tell from the rhythm that it's Kevin. He let them take him away in the arena. He's not going to last long in the Games if he doesn't learn to fight. "Come in."

"You've seen," he says, waving at the television. "I just came to tell you you were on TV." He has bags under his eyes and his speech is tired, but he's still standing straight.

"You saw?" I'm embarrassed that he knows I hid all that from him, but mostly I need to know what he thought. I'm dying for a reaction. I'd rather have one from someone in the districts, but his will have to suffice for now. At least he seems to understand them. "Well?"

"You made the most impact out of all the tributes. They'll remember you. I don't really know if that's a good thing or a bad thing right now." Useless! "I've been up thinking all night," he continues. "We need to get them to stop. There are a thousand reasons why they can't do this."

"We did it to them for 75 years, Kevin. They're not going to cancel this."

"We're from the Capitol and they hate everything about us. We can't persuade them. There's still a way, though. We need the Mockingjay on our side."

"Does she have that kind of influence?"

"She did. Last I heard, they were saying she's crazy, but maybe she can still stop this. I just don't know how to contact her."

"Contact whom? Do you have a new girlfriend, Kevin?" Kirstie walks in. Her face is clean and made up, her hair is done, and she's smiling. It seems she's decided to keep calm and carry on.

"Katniss. And she's taken, but we need to get in touch with her. Maybe she could stop the Games."

Kirstie just shrugs. "There's a photo op downstairs in twenty. They're taking our pictures for the news, and they'll probably interview us. Go get ready." How can she be so upbeat? She must be in complete denial. When Kevin shuts the door, though, she is suddenly very serious. "Mitch. We need to be allies. One-on-one, you don't stand a chance against Avi, Kevin, or Scott. They're just too big. I'm in the same boat. I don't have much hope of beating you either, but I'd rather take my chances against you than any of the others. Sooner or later they'll realize that this is real, and when they do, we have to be together or neither of us will make it." It makes sense. Kirstie's wrong (or lying) about not standing a chance against me-I saw her in the arena-but she's right about everything else and she knows it.

It's alarming how frank she's being. Maybe it's because she knows I have to agree. I couldn't even take down Avi singlehandedly, let alone Kevin or Scott. Maybe, though, she's looking for my reaction. How am I supposed to respond? How would Avi respond? "You can't seriously want to kill them!"

"Don't give me that, Mitch. I know you. Are you in?" She's watching me intently. She's not looking for platitudes or pretense. She's been entirely forward, and she wants the same in return. She does know me, and more than that, I think she understands.

I sigh. "Of course. As long as there are others in the arena, we all need each other. But if it comes down to just five of us, or maybe four of us, you and I have to watch each others' backs. And if it's just three of us, we'll team up to kill the other one, and then I guess we'll both try to kill each other." I hate the words coming out of my mouth, but being honest feels so good. She nods and holds out her hand. I shake it. She could break her promise, but she won't. It's in her best interest to keep me alive longer than any of the others. I'm going to have to watch her closely, though. She's devious.


	7. Chapter 7

I forget about the photo op until a voice barks, "All tributes gather in the foyer," over the intercom. It's a Capitol accent. There is food on the table in the dining area, and servants walk through the halls. If the people of the Capitol are back to running things, there must be some extemporaneous government in place already. We're still here, though, so it's not one I like.

I go downstairs in my gray tunic. There's nothing better in my closet, I'm a little beyond caring about looking good right now, and I want to be in something that doesn't scream, "Spoiled Capitol brat!" A small army of stylists comes by. I let them give me a trim and apply foundation, but after that, I quietly refuse everything until someone comes by with contour makeup. "Make me look thinner, please," I request. I want to look like I come from the districts.

"Very funny, string bean. I'm gonna fill you out a bit. Or maybe something angular? Yeah, you'd look great with corners."

"Can I borrow that?" He looks puzzled but hands over the makeup. "Thanks," I say. "You can go now." He just stands there befuddled as I make my cheeks sink in and add circles back under my eyes. It doesn't take much to make me look gaunt. I return his tools and glare at him gently until he moves along.

After a half hour, the other tributes are awash with color and nearly ready. A new stylist walks in and sits down silently in the corner. He's decked out in clashing shades of garish chartreuse, like he's trying his hardest to be appalling. If he is, he's not succeeding. Most of the stylists sneer a little when they glance at him, but the longer I stare at it, the more I love his apparel. He breaks a few laws of fashion that should never be broken, but the subtle details–the fit, the fabric, the rhythm of the shapes, and the compositional balance–are all on point. He's holding a sketchbook. He looks at each tribute for a few seconds and draws a study without even glancing down at his paper. Something about the way he moves is terribly familiar.

Eventually he turns a page and looks my way. He meets my gaze unabashedly, but very briefly. His eyes dart across my face as he scribbles it down. Even his eyelashes are bright yellow-green. He taps his pen on the page with finality when he finishes drawing me and he gives a satisfied little nod. Suddenly I recognize him. I haven't heard a whisper of him since the Quarter Quell, and he looks completely different, but he can be none other than Cinna. He's hiding. His neon outfit is so ostentatious he's hard to look at, and he's wearing loads of makeup, so it's impossible to recognize him by appearance. It was his movements and mannerisms that gave him away, and I only recognize those because I've been following him and his work since even before he was involved in the Games.

He might know how to contact Katniss, but it's clearly not the best idea to call out, "Cinna! How have you been since you dropped off the face of the planet?" Instead, I try something a little more discrete. "I like your eyelashes." Some of the stylists snicker quietly. Like the rest of his outfit, Cinna's lashes are too bright and too pointy. I walk casually (I hope) to his corner and lean against the wall. "Lucius Cornelius." I address him by his namesake. He tenses and begins to rise. "Don't go." He sits. I didn't expect him to obey so easily. He thinks I'm threatening him! And why shouldn't I? He wants his presence to be a secret and I want him to put me, or better yet, Kevin, in touch with Katniss. Maybe blackmailing my fashion idol, Katniss's good friend, is not the best way to win her over, though. I pull up a chair. "Don't worry. I won't tell."

"Thank you, Mitch." Cinna knows my name! Granted, I'm pretty famous, but so is he. "That was quite a performance you gave yesterday." Is that how he knows me? I had assumed he recognized me from the opening ceremonies at the Quarter Quell.

"How do you know about that?" Has everyone seen it? And if they have, do they all know my name too?

"It's everywhere. 'Mitch, the boy who sings. Mitch, the boy who cares.' I see you're milking it for all it's worth." He's looking at me like it isn't worth much at all. I'm way out of my depth. I don't know anything about appealing to the districts.

"Can you help me? I really need it."

"You may sing, but you don't actually care." He sounds equally scornful, jaded, and bitter.

"I'm dying, so you had better believe that I'm going to sing sad songs if I think it will help me." I don't think he meant to, but he's hit a nerve. "Just because it's working, though, doesn't mean I was faking it. I turned a blind eye to the districts all my life, but then I saw those people, Cinna, and I care. I probably don't care enough, and I know it's too late to mean anything to anyone, but I care." My voice is low, but I'm practically spitting. I'm not sure why this matters so much to me. I calm myself and continue. "They shouldn't call me the boy who cares, though. Kevin cares. He cares the way I wish I did, and he always has."

Cinna is looking at me very differently now. "I believe you," he says slowly. His brow creases a little and he squints. He studies my face again, more closely than when he first drew it, as if double checking that I'm being honest. I'm beginning to feel uncomfortable. Suddenly he comes to an epiphany and his face relaxes, but almost immediately his brow creases again.

"What is it?"

He shuts his eyes and leans back, drawing breath slowly. "I'll help you."

"I need it. Thank you. I'm so lost. I don't know what to say to the districts. I don't know what they're thinking." I have no idea what is going through his head, but I am immensely grateful.

"It's tragic," he sighs, "but I think you stand a chance."

"You're going to have to explain that." I don't stand a chance, and this whole thing is tragic, so he's going to have to be more specific.

He opens his sketchbook to my page. "This was my impression of you." The lines are loose and scribbly, but by no means sloppy. It's clearly my face. Even through his quick strokes, I can see that he noticed more than most people do. He captured not only my unusual hairstyle and my dark eyes, but also the curve of my nose, the arc of my brows, and the tightness in my anxious mouth. He's captured not just the shape of my face, but also an exaggerated expression. My likeness looks as shifty as a weasel. Not just shifty, guilty. "You seemed like you were hiding something."

"Is it that obvious?" I laugh uncomfortably and give up entirely on the idea of impressing my hero. Now I'm just hoping he can't guess what I'm hiding. I'll make something up like I did with Scott. It sounds like he already knows, though.

"I spend a lot of time staring at faces, so I'm a little more in-tune with these things. Maybe most people wouldn't notice. It bothered me, though, until I understood why. I think I get it now. You said, 'Help me' and 'I need it.' 'Me.' 'I.'"

I should have said "Help us" and "We need it" and "We're lost," but I'm selfish and I'm already thinking about murdering them in their sleep. With that much guilt weighing on me, I can't be blamed for looking like Weasel McWeaselton. I wish I could hide it better, though. Cinna has the grace not to spell it all out. Instead he says, "When I said, 'It's tragic," I meant it's tragic that you have to be so independent, and the reason I said you stand a chance is that you've already accepted that you'll be alone. Just remember that you don't have to be alone yet. Not until the very end."

The front doors open and a multitude of photographers enter, trailed closely by reporters. "The districts are setting up an emergency election for next week," Cinna explains. "They've shut down a lot of the Capitol, but they're making a point of keeping the Games running. The people in the Capitol are all acting outraged, of course, but most of them are just excited for the Games. The people you need to impress are the people in the districts, though. I gather you're not ready for this, so keep your answers as short as possible and we'll talk afterward. I need to talk to Kevin too."

Maybe there's some hope after all. Maybe Cinna will help me win. No, I can't call that hope, not when it means 23 people, including the four most important people in the world, will be dead. It feels like hope, though. What's wrong with me?


	8. Chapter 8

I want to strangle the eighth reporter in a row who asks, "What's it like being in the last Hunger Games?" Killing a journalist with my bare hands would probably be good practice, come to think of it. Interviewers, as I learned when Pentatonix became popular, are more predictable than the sun. Scott, our self-appointed spokesperson, has probably answered the same questions about how we became a band, how we pick songs, and how we make arrangements at least six hundred times. How does he do it? Answering patiently as if it's a new and exciting question every time is taking the full measure of my self-control. You'd think that questions like, "Are you afraid to die?" would be more interesting than, "What parts do you all sing?" but after the first three repetitions, everything is the same.

I'm eager to get back to Cinna, but when the reporters finally leave, he's gone. Pencilled onto the wall over his seat is the message, "See you soon." Soon? What's that supposed to mean? I can't help but feel a little abandoned. I need so much more information to even begin to plan. He left his sketch of me on the chair. Did he think I'd want to keep it? I don't even want to look at it. I turn it over quickly and see another drawing on the back. It's my face again, but serene and even a little happy. Even though it's just as structurally accurate as the drawing on the other side, it doesn't look like me. I have no peace and no joy, and I probably never will again.

"Mitch?" I startle and quickly fold the paper into quarters. Someone is standing right behind me. She steps back a little nervously when I spin around. "I'm Tullia." If I recall correctly, she's famous for posting insipid vlogs covering every minute of her life, including when she's asleep. Her parents are both involved somehow in the government. They were last week, anyway. With all the makeup the stylists have put on her it's hard to tell, but I don't think she's over fourteen. "I'm scared." Of course she is. She's going to die. She wavers a little, like someone trying to decide if it's okay to ask for my autograph, and then says, "Will you sing?"

People ask me that a lot, but not usually because they're going to be killed before the leaves start changing. Normally I would just sing a quick, fifteen second song and send her on her way. She's not just some fan, though. She's a tribute, like me. "Okay." If I comfort her now, maybe she won't kill me later. That's why I tell myself I'm agreeing, anyway. "I'm going to warm up first. I'll come back here in half and hour and sing for you and for anyone else who wants to hear. Let them know, okay?" She nods and smiles in relief, then gives me a quick, awkward hug and scampers off. Maybe her strategy is to be as adorable as possible and hope nobody will want to kill her.

On my way back to my room, I see a light behind Kirstie's door. She doesn't answer when I knock. I enter, and she's lying flat on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She doesn't seem to mind that I can see tears on her face, but it's hard to look. Seeing her emotions so exposed makes me want to take care of her. Ultimately, we're going to try to kill each other, but I'm glad we're allies for now. Maybe, since we understand each other, I won't feel as despicable for taking her life.

"I'm going to sing for some of the tributes." It sounds stupid when I say it out loud. "Will you join me?" Her expression doesn't change, but she nods a little and sings scales with me, and when we come to the higher notes, she sits up. I've heard her sing while laughing, crying, and simultaneously laughing and crying. She's not like me. I stopped loving her yesterday because I couldn't bear to anymore, but she could keep singing over my dead body with tears streaming down her face. She doesn't have to contain or control her emotions. Somehow, she can keep going in spite of them.

When we finish preparing and come downstairs, all the tributes are sitting on the floor, cross-legged like preschoolers. I was expecting Tullia and maybe a few of the younger, smaller children, but even our biggest and most intimidating competitors are looking up at us expectantly. They have no idea yet how terrifying they are. Right now, they're just as afraid as the smallest boy here. Kirstie steps into the center of the room and begins a soft, slow song. I follow with a harmony. From time to time we trade parts, and as I sing, I take the opportunity to survey my fellow tributes. One woman in her late twenties looks like a professional athlete. She's tall and broad, and she could probably lift me over her head. A young man sitting near the back is even taller than Scott and three times as heavy. Next to him are two people who look like they could be twins, a boy and a girl around seventeen years old. They'll probably team up. There are four people near Avi's age and size. Just looking at them makes me feel inexperienced and unprepared. A few more people are around Tullia's age, and one boy is even younger, maybe just twelve or thirteen. When I look at him, I think of all the lethal skills he might be hiding and all the ways he could kill me. I'm twice his size, but we're equally mortal. None of us are like the tributes from the districts. None of us trained or volunteered for this. We never do manual labor. We always have enough to eat. Our hands are soft and spotless. We'll become complete savages, though, once the Games begin.

Kirstie moves closer and lets our arms touch. It's her silent signal that I'm screwing something up. I try to forget the Games and focus on the music. I close my eyes and listen to every oscillation in our voices. I offset her voice during the gentle notes, and during the powerful notes I mach her exactly. She sings the refrain again and I start the chorus. We sound beautiful. I regret that we won't be able to sing duets for much longer. The song ends, but I improvise a transition into the next one. I don't want to let the music stop even for a second. Singing puts my mind at ease. If only I could keep singing forever...

Servants from the Capitol gather quietly in the back of the room, but the district guards are pretending not to hear anything. Their hands are scarred and calloused, and deep lines score their faces. I pour everything into my song, but it isn't enough. Why should they listen? They've already shown more than enough mercy. There are a hundred people in the districts for every one of the twenty million people in the Capitol. They could kill us all. Instead, they're only going to kill 23 of us. I hope our deaths will be enough for them.

Most of the tributes are transfixed by the music, keeping absolutely still, leaning forward, and staring at us. Scott, however, seems agitated. He fidgets in the back for a while and then leaves without meeting my eyes. I'm not supposed to care, but I hope he's okay.

Kirstie and I continue as long as we can. A few of the tributes clap when we finish, and Tullia thanks us shyly. When everyone disperses, Kirstie and I go directly to Scott's room. He isn't there. We find him in the dining room, standing against a corner. His head is thrown back and he's pouring hard liquor straight down his throat.

He looks up and smiles at us. There are a few empty beers at his feet. "Come 'ere!" He holds out the bottle invitingly and Kirstie backs out the door. I storm forward. He giggles while I scream obscenities at him. The wretch has a death wish. I rip the bottle from his outstretched hand and shout, "You're going to die, you moron. You're going to let them kill you! Look at you! You're big. You're strong. You're twice my size. You could actually make it out alive, but you're setting yourself up for failure!" I want to shatter the bottle, but it's made of plastic. Of course. We can't have anything that could be turned into a weapon. I hold it at arm's length and spill its contents out onto the carpet. Scott growls like a dog and shoves me.

We used to get drunk together, we used to egg each other on, and we used to watch out for each other to make sure we didn't get into any real trouble. This is different. He has everything I don't, and he's squandering it. How dare he? He pulls another bottle from a cabinet over his head and pushes it against my face.

"Driiiink."

"You are repellent," I hiss, pushing the bottle aside roughly. He pulls it away, stares at it for a moment, and then swings it into the side of my head. I punch him hard in the stomach. He doubles over and lunges at me. I crash into the ground and he falls with me, completely off balance. Kevin and Avi rush in, but I haven't hit Scott nearly enough, so I carry on fighting until they peel me away. I storm out and leave them to deal with the miserable drunken lump that I used to call my best friend forever. I'm done with him.


	9. Chapter 9

The basement is a large gym split into stations for learning all manner of survival skills. There are a dozen other tributes training here, but nobody to train us. The Capitol doesn't have any victors, so we don't even have mentors. I don't want to learn about edible roots and leaves right now anyways. I just want to forget everything and sweat. I make the room play us loud music, I step onto a treadmill, and I try not to think.

When I get a stitch in my side, I ignore it. I keep running when my throat is parched. I keep running when my clothes are soaked and my legs are sore and my breath is ragged. I should stretch, drink some water, take a rest, and come back again tomorrow, but I'm not just exercising. I'm putting off facing the others. I know it was stupid getting into a fight with a drunk guy, but I'm not sorry. I'm not going to put up with that. I hope Avi, Kevin, and Kirstie empty every bottle into the sink. I hope Scott wakes up sore and badly hung over tomorrow.

I have to stop eventually, but I don't feel ready to go back up again. I load a bar with weights instead, fewer than usual because I'm not about to ask one of the other tributes to spot me. I shouldn't have let Scott get this far. I shouldn't have enabled him for so long. That's just one more thing to feel guilty about.

It goes without saying that Pentatonix will work together for as long as possible in the Games. Kevin, Scott, and Avi are among the most formidable tributes, and Kirstie is not to be underestimated. I wouldn't stand a chance without them, but as long as I'm part of the team, none of the tributes will dare attack us. Even if some of the other tributes team up, and even if Pentatonix is in shambles by the time the Games begin, no alliance built in three months will compare to what we've built in four years. And when it comes down to it, the bonds Pentatonix has built in four years aren't going to hold against the friendships I've had with Kirstie and Scott for well over a decade. It's not because of how much we care about each other, but because of how much we trust each other.

Avi and Kevin are probably planning to team up. I'm counting on Kirstie, but there's no way the two of us can take the two of them. We need Scott. I'm going to have to apologize. I'm going to have to lie more. I desperately need my best friend right now, but they've taken him away and made him my enemy.

I toss and turn all night and sleep through most of the morning. A soft knock at my door wakes me, and Scott lets himself in. "Mitch, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." I wasn't prepared for him to apologize to me. "I hit you. I fought you." He's mortified, completely appalled at himself. This isn't going the right direction. I don't want him to apologize for hitting poor tiny defenseless me. I want him to apologize for drinking in the most reprehensible manner conceivable.

"I hit you too." He just shakes his head like that doesn't make any difference. When he hits me, he's a monster, but when I hit him, it's just cute. I know his stomach must still hurt, but not enough for him to take me seriously. I guess being belittled and underestimated gives me an edge, but it's demoralizing.

"Scott, I'm mad at you, but I don't care that you hit me. Do you understand?" He looks at me skeptically. "It's not because you hurt me. It's because you were hurting yourself. You were destroying yourself. How am I supposed to stay strong if you can't?"

"I don't want to win."

"It's that or die, Scott."

"I know."

"No. You don't. We're going to fight to the death in three months, and you're apologizing for hitting me."

"Yes. Exactly." Clearly it just hasn't sunk in yet, but his face is grim. Suddenly I realize what he really means. He does get it. He's not confused. He's not ignoring the problem. He knows he has to win or die, and he's telling me he would rather die. I'm horrified.

"Scott..." I don't know what to say. I don't think I'm supposed to be shocked. I'm supposed to act like it doesn't surprise me that he's willing to die instead of me. I'm supposed to feel the same way. I'm not supposed to want to go on living if it means he will die, Kirstie will die, Kevin will die, Avi will die, and nineteen other innocent people will die. I'm certainly not supposed to be planning to murder them. I should hug him and offer some comforting platitude, but I'm dumbstruck, and he sees it.

I'll start with the obvious. "I'm speechless." Now I have to try to recover somehow. I can't let him glean too much from my reaction. He doesn't want to win, but that doesn't mean he's going to just let me kill him. I need him to trust me so I can stab him in the back. It's more than that, though. He's choosing a noble death, and I'm choosing a selfish, perfidious, sad, lonely life, and I can't stand the idea of him seeing me for what I am. I hate myself more with every lie, but it's better than him hating me. Nothing is more terrifying than the idea of him despising me the way I'm trying so desperately to despise him. "I don't stand a chance. I know I'm going to die. All I can hope for is that one of the five of us will live. One of the three of us, if I'm honest."

I can't just tell him, "I promise I'm not planning to kill you, but it would be good if you had a little more desire to live so you can be around to protect my team and me a little longer." I have to do more than just reverse the truth. I have to pervert it. "I thought it could be you, but now you're telling me you want to die. I know it's terrible just thinking about it, but please listen. All five of us have to fight together. We have to trust each other completely, and if we do, maybe we'll be the last ones standing, or at least some of us. If that happens and I'm still alive, I'm on your side, and Kirstie is too." He cringes at the implications and looks away. He hates it, but in the end, we'll try to kill Kevin and Avi and they will try to kill us. "It's hard to say this. It's hard even to contemplate, but if it comes down to just you, me, and Kirstie," I start to choke on my words. "If it's just the three of us, then I want you to live."

I stop for a full minute with my mouth open and no words coming out. Even though it's a lie, it's too terrible to say out loud. Maybe it's even worse because it's a lie, but I'm committed to this. I have no honor left. I have no decency and no love. All I have is my life. That's all I can afford, and the cost is dear. I look Scott straight in the eyes and say, "I won't let you kill Kirstie. I don't want you to live with that." He's shaking his head, but he isn't stopping me. I take a deep breath and utter, "I'll do it myself." It's impossible to keep looking at him. "And after that, I'll want to die, and you'll want to kill me, and so that's what will happen."

I soften my voice until I'm almost inaudible. "Scott, as long as you let me say goodbye first, you have my permission to kill me." I feel sick. It's not enough even to pervert the truth. I have to play it out like I would if it were real. "I know I can't beat you, and I don't want to fight you, so you're going to have to kill me, and I want you to know you have my permission. You have my permission to live. You have my permission to grieve for as long as you need, and also to be happy again someday, whenever you're ready. You have my permission to hate me when I'm gone. You have my permission to forget me."

What I'm doing right now feels even worse than killing him. I have to do that, but I don't have to do this. If I live, not a day will go by when I don't loathe myself. I should just stop and confess and hope I can still kill him without lying to him. Impossible. I couldn't even come close. Even when he's just tickling me I can't escape him. I can't overpower him in the arena.

"I don't want to win," he repeats.

Enough. No more. "I do," I whisper.


	10. Chapter 10

_ Relevant:  _ [ _ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0dYlvdLdK9w _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0dYlvdLdK9w)

"I don't want to win," he repeats.

Enough. No more. "I do," I whisper.

I shut my eyes and stop breathing. It's still not too late to take it back. It's not too late to say "I do want to win, but I can't, so I want you to win." Maybe it's not too late to save my life. Instead, I open my mouth again and let everything out. "I want to live more than anything else." I can't stop. "I want to win even if I'll be miserable forever. Even if it means killing all 23 of you with my bare hands. Even if it means poisoning you or slitting your throat in your sleep. Even if it means lying. I'm prepared to do all those things. I don't deserve to look at you. I don't deserve to live through this. I know I don't... I just need to."

My new strategy for the Games is to get as far away from Scott as fast as possible. As strategies go, it sucks. I won't last long at all, but if I don't run, Scott is going to snap my neck the second we enter the arena. He can't trust me, so it's better for him to kill me immediately. I'm terrified to see his face, but I can't help imagining it. Is he angry? Confused? Hurt? I close my eyes tighter, wishing I could stop time. I hear him breathing, but he's not saying anything. This is torture. Why did I do this? It was for the heavenly relief I'm experiencing right now. My heart is beating too fast and my stomach is churning with fear, but my head is floating. I feel more free than I could have imagined.

There's a saturation point for emotion. I have reached it, and until Scott speaks, I am suspended here in agony. "Scott, say something."

"I'm giving up on you," he sings sadly.

A part of me dies. I open my eyes at last and stand. I don't want to be in the same room as him anymore. He's hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. I walk past him slowly. I feel cold. "Not funny?" he asks with a halfhearted giggle.

"I'm going to kill you!"

"Yes, you've said."

"Not funny."

"I'm sorry, I'm just nervous. That's not even the right word. I don't know what to say." He sits up and turns toward me. I'm a wreck. Pity flashes across his face and he speaks in a low voice. "It's okay Mitch." It's not okay. "I don't understand how you could want that. Do you really?" I look down at my bare feet and nod. "Then I want to help you."

Did he just say that? "I lied to you. Nothing I said was true. I manipulated you. You don't want to help me."

"Don't lie to me again, Mitch." His voice is deep and stern, but his intonation isn't angry. "You don't have to." Even I didn't know that was exactly what I needed to hear. How did he?

Don't lie. I'll do my best. I sit down again and start by telling him about singing in the arena. He interrupts constantly and asks all kinds questions. I tell him about Cinna too. He completely geeks out. It's like we're friends again. I tried to cut him out of my heart, but I failed. It's going to hurt so, so, so badly to lose him. It already hurts, but at the same time, I'm indescribably happy. It's incredible to have my best friend back. It feels wonderful to talk honestly again.

Not everything is better, though. I'm letting him, Scott, the single most important person, die for me without even trying to dissuade him, and I still can't tell him about my alliance with Kirstie. I have to let her decide for herself whether she trusts him, and I have to decide whether to honor my promise to Kirstie or depend on Scott. In the end, if it's only the Trio, do I kill Scott and hope Kirstie doesn't have anything up her sleeve, or do I kill Kirstie and hope Scott is still willing to die when it would be so easy for him to win?

We talk for hours. I already know everything about him, but I want to make sure I'm not missing anything. It feels like we're closer than ever. "What did I do to deserve a friend like you?"

"I ask myself that every day."

"All this time? You did nothing to deserve a selfish, treacherous maggot like me in your life. I can't understand why you're still speaking to me, but I'm grateful. And I'm sorry." I can't apologize enough for what I've said.

"It's not your fault." He's looking at me intensely. "They did this to us. There's no right choice. When this is over, I don't want you to feel guilty about any of it. They hurt me through you. It was never you." Scott Hoying is a miracle. If I can't even lie to him, how am I supposed to be able to kill him?

Kevin shoves the door open. "Come with me! Cinna is alive!"

"Was he supposed to be dead?" asks Scott.

"Everyone in the districts assumed the Capitol had executed him for supporting Katniss," Kevin answers. I'm still very unclear on the relationship between the Capitol and the districts, but this is even worse than I thought.

Cinna stands at ease in Kevin's room, dressed as a servant. He looks at me cautiously when Avi and Kirstie arrive, and I nod. It's okay to talk with all of us here. "I want to help you," he says. "There's a lot going on outside right now. These are supposed to be the last Hunger Games, but this is by no means the end of the conflict. How much do you know?" I shrug. I don't even know how much there is to know.

"The riots have become very violent. If you go outside in the city, there's a good chance you'll get shot. Nobody here is fighting back yet, but there will be war again soon if this keeps up. We will lose and most of us will die. We can't just surrender, though, because neither the districts nor the Capitol have a leader; Snow and Coin are dead. Katniss is locked up somewhere in this very building awaiting trial for shooting Coin. There's nobody to try her, though. There was going to be an election, but it looks less and less likely that it will happen.

"Right now Commander Paylor from District Eight is the only sane person with any kind of cohesive following. She's treading very lightly to avoid starting anything. She's trying to work with people from the Capitol to make sure that the districts still get what they need, since they all depend on each other. Meanwhile, Lepidus Steward, the head gamemaker from the 70th Games, is ingratiating himself to the people with great success by keeping the Games running and making all kinds of promises he can't keep.

"You're going to be in the spotlight, and with a little work, that can become a position of great influence. Most people in the Capitol are beginning to understand that the districts have never been what they were told, but with all the chaos and rioting, they're disinclined to sympathize with them. You're already well known in the Capitol, and the districts are very curious about you. I don't know what the right thing to do is, but I think you care about both groups, so I want to help you however I can. Now, which one of you is planning on winning?"

That was sudden. Kirstie and I point at Scott. Scott almost points at me, but catches himself just in time. Avi just says, "There is no plan."

Kevin shakes his head. "We can't let the Games happen. We have to stop them."

Cinna raises an eyebrow. (I have so much respect for Cinna's eyebrows.) "Just how do you intend to do that?"

"You said Steward is running the Games to make himself popular."

"That, and he's a sadistic maniac."

"If the districts didn't want the Games anymore, he'd stop."

"That's a very definite maybe. Even the more peaceful people in the districts support the Games, though. They see it as a kind of final sacrifice to put an end to the violence."

"It's not working."

"Not enough, but it is. If it weren't for the Games, I honestly believe the Capitol would smell of nothing but rotting flesh right now. The people need to see some kind of justice done."

"What if there were real justice?" Avi asks. "What if the political leaders were put on trial?"

"This is real justice," I says quietly. "We deserve this. Everyone in the Capitol is guilty. We stood by and let this happen. We watched and cheered and sang at the Games. We've lived in luxury while the districts served us under the threat of annihilation. We accepted it. We profited from it."

"We didn't know." Avi already understands what I'm saying, though, and I can tell he already knows how I'll respond.

"We should have."

"If Katniss is here," Kevin interrupts, "then we need to talk to her. She can help stop the war." What about stopping the Games? Has Kevin already given up on that? A meager scrap of hope I didn't realize I had in me dies with a sharp pang.

"She can't help us." Cinna's voice is light and dismissive, but it sounds strained to me. As a stylist and an artist, he can distinguish between the subtlest shades of expression, and as a musician and a singer, I can hear the hidden pain in his voice. He moves on quickly. "You're going to be the new mockingjays, the new leaders."

I didn't sign up for any of this. I don't want a war, of course, and I don't want 23 of us to die in vain, but Cinna is overestimating us. Just because we're in the Games doesn't mean we can lead like Katniss did, and even she didn't finish the job. "Why can't the real Mockingjay help?" I press.

Cinna looks troubled. "She's not herself. Don't talk to her; it only makes her worse. She's giving up. She's trying to die."


	11. Chapter 11

My calves feel tight as I shift my weight nervously, but I'm used to the soreness. It's remarkable how much I've gotten used to over the past fortnight. I'm used to five hours of physical training per day. I'm used to constant pain in muscles I never knew existed. I'm comfortable with swords, arrows, spears, axes, daggers, and especially knives. I'm used to eating until I feel sick. I've had no success whatsoever in putting on fat for the Games, but I can at least try to avoid burning too much. I'm used to waking up every night tangled in my sheets, sweating and sometimes screaming. I'm used to being tired and afraid. I'm used to crying unabashedly. All the tributes do, and we scarcely notice anymore.

I'm still not used to Kevin brooding instead of laughing. I'm not used to hearing Kirstie talk about her regrets. I'm not used to avoiding Avi, who doesn't talk to us anymore and doesn't seem to want to be around people. I'll never get used to what I feel every time I glance at Scott. I can't help but imagine him bleeding out.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," Caesar projects from the other side of the curtain, "I present Tullia Gene!" She's wearing an explosion of airy, sparkly, iridescent lavender fabric. She's following in the longstanding tradition of pandering to the audience by becoming a caricature. The other tributes' personae have covered the full spectrum, including strong and silent, sappy, angry, snarky, and sexy. It's just what you'd expect from the Games, but the district audience is nothing like the old audiences from the Capitol. They aren't buying any of it. With the notable exception of the reaping, this is going to be the hardest crowd I've ever faced. Tullia skips out in her fairy princess costume. The room bursts into enthusiastic applause. What? They've barely acknowledged the past seventeen tributes except to point and snicker.

"Welcome, welcome!" Caesar is an experienced host and he can handle himself even in front of an audience like this, but clearly he's relieved at the unexpected change of mood. "We've all been transfixed by your videos, Tullia. What's it like sharing so much of your life with the world?"

"I love it!" she giggles. "It's like having millions of intimate friends. And when I'm gone..." Her voice is soft now. "When I'm gone, there will be a record of me." Has she still been pulling out her camera every night and vlogging? How does she even have a camera, and how can she publish videos without a connection to the Capitol Network? We're not allowed any kind of communication with the outside world. No doubt the gamemaker has made an exception for her because she's good for publicity.

I haven't even thought of my own channel since I was taken. I'm sure I'd get millions of new subscribers if I shared my personal thoughts on being a tribute, but right now, subscribers are lower on my list of priorities than Avi can sing. Besides, I never considered Superfruit to be a record of my life, and if I die and it becomes that, I don't want it to include the person I am now.

If I live, will I watch it again? I won't be able to help it. After all, what greater pain could I inflict on myself?

"That's a wonderful thing to hold on to," Caesar croons. "I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say we hope that record won't be finished for many years to come." He tells everyone he hopes they'll live, and somehow he makes it seem sincere every time. He's smooth. "You've shared some very difficult and some very special moments with us. We saw you during the reaping," She recorded that? "And we've been watching ever since." Oh no. "From your perspective, we've seen the Games like never before."

She has an eye cam. It's the only explanation. You have to sacrifice an eye to get one, but it's not unusual among people who are already blind or almost blind on one side. Good ones are almost impossible to distinguish from real eyes. From the sound of it, Tullia streams 24/7. That's why she's so famous. That's why she always acts adorable. That's why she asked me to sing. No, that doesn't make sense. Why not trick me into looking mean or weak or foolish on camera? Maybe she was hoping I'd refuse. Maybe she turned off her camera during the performance, or only published the parts where I was off key. Maybe she thought the music would get her more attention, but what use is attention if she has to share it with other tributes? "Let's watch a few of those special moments," Caesar proposes.

I can't see the screen from backstage, but I can hear enough. Tullia comforts the young boy, Romulus, when he's weeping. If the audience has seen this, it's no wonder they saw through his cocky, confident front. In the next clip, Tullia intervenes in a fight between the twins and says lots of sappy things. They fight all the time, but for the sake of the crowd, they pretended today that they were inseparable. That explains a lot of the pointing and snickering. When Cassia, the tall, broad, athletic woman, starts shouting and breaking things, Tullia calms her. This doesn't directly contradict Cassia's strong, stoic mask, but it doesn't help her image either. None of Pentatonix have interviewed yet, but I hope there aren't any clips lined up that make Tullia look like an angel and us look like losers. The next few clips sound like Tullia is just talking wistfully to thin air. I hear the white noise change to the sound of a small room, and I hear Kirstie's voice. She's encouraging Tullia and hugging her. Avi is next. Tullia finds him on the rooftop and they talk about the stars. I can imagine them pointing at constellations. This is actually quite heartwarming. I tense when I hear the words, "I'm scared. Will you sing?"

I find a gap in the curtain and peer though. I see my face looking down from a ten foot screen that goes dark every time Tullia blinks. "Okay," I reply. The video cuts to Kirstie and me singing side by side. All the hostility has melted from the crowd.

The other shots were all under thirty seconds, but the song keeps playing. It must be the last clip. Kirstie and I sing the third verse.

Don't still hold it in your heart

When the winter's gone

'Cause the world moves on

When the summer starts.

We begin the bridge, all oohs and humming. Much to Caesar's surprise, Tullia stands and faces the audience. "Stop the Games. Please. Please." Except for the music, there is absolute silence. She looks pleadingly at the audience. They know they're being recorded and they don't know how to respond. They are still. Kirstie and I sing the final verse. We picked it because the tune is melancholy, but the words make so much sense right now. Tullia planned for this to be shown.

Don't let shadows from the past

Make our future gray.

Let the dark give way

To the light at last.

The video stops before the chorus. Nobody moves. This next moment is critical. Nobody thinks the Games can be stopped, and most of them don't want them to stop, but now they're beginning to feel like they're supposed to want that. They want to watch the video from Tullia's eye cam when she dies, but none of them want anyone else to know that's what they want. All we need right now is a single, loud, "Yes," from the audience, a single supporter willing to stand up against the Games. The live audience of the Hunger Games interviews, however, is not the place to find that supporter. They begin to look away.

"Well, that was a very moving video," Caesar says. Curse him and his inability to endure an awkward silence. "Our hearts go out to you and all the tributes. The Games have always been a symbol of peace, and this final year marks the beginning what we hope will be an enduring period of harmony." Curse him! Tullia sits down and says very little in response to the next few questions. Caesar backs off from serious topics, but as she tries to answer what her favorite food is, she starts sobbing.

"There, there." In over 35 years of interviewing tributes, this is by no means the first time Caesar has seen one cry. He stretches out a consoling hand, and she lets him pat her back, but she shows no signs of stopping. He tries in vain to distract her and to comfort her, but she doesn't seem to care at all that millions of people are watching her cry. She's used to it. Kirstie gently pushes me aside from the gap in the curtain and walks out onto the stage. She sits down next to Tullia and wraps an arm around her. For what seems like an eternity, Tullia cries into her shoulder.

"Perhaps you're done interviewing," Caesar says gently. "Kirstie will take you back."

"No," Kirstie says firmly and a bit loudly. She doesn't try to hide Tullia away or make her stop. She sits by her side and lets her cry. It never occurred to me to help Tullia. I don't know her very well. Neither does Kirstie, though. I admire her compassion and feel like a bit of a worm by comparison. Caesar mumbles comforting things from time to time and offers tissues, but he has given up. In her own time, Tullia stops crying, and, breathing heavily and unevenly, rises. She reaches for Kirstie's hand and they walk to the edge of the stage.

"You," Tullia says in a voice threatening to break, "are no friends of mine." She lifts her fingers to her face and pulls her false eye from its socket. She holds it high over her head, turning it slowly to record the whole audience, to condemn them, and then wraps it tightly in a fist.

She and Kirstie return, still hand in hand. Caesar knows better than to pretend nothing happened. He begins clapping, slowly at first. Soon the audience joins in applause for her boldness. The clapping grows stronger and soon the audience is standing. It's meaningless. If they really cared, they would stop the Games. They just love the drama. They aren't so different from the people of the Capitol.

The sound dies down and Caesar carries on with the spectacle. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, the tribute you've all been dying to meet! Please welcome," he pauses for effect, "Mitch Grassi!"


	12. Chapter 12

The crowd roars. Scott nudges me and I remember to step out. They scream even louder. I'm wrapped in luxurious deep black fabric made of soft cotton and rayon. It's drapes gracefully across my shoulders and torso, and on the front, tiny folds are sewn into a V-shaped seam that runs from my shoulders down to a point around my navel. Over everything, I'm wearing an exquisitely tailored tailcoat with silk lapels and dark metal studs instead of buttons. Rather than a collar, I have an oversized hood with a velvety inner lining. Shiny black makeup with silver accents covers my eyes. "Welcome back, Mitch!" Caesar stands to embrace me. "Last time we spoke, you were promoting your new album, which, by the way, I still listen to every day. A lot has happened since then."

Even after years of performing, I still get nervous for something as big as this interview. The people seem to love me, but maybe they're just worked up. I prepared myself mentally as much as I could, but then Tullia threw me completely off balance. She must have edited the video herself and asked Caesar, via her stream, to show it. That's how she knew just when to stand and address the crowd. It's bothering me that the footage she chose of the other tributes was all demeaning, but the videos with Avi, Kirstie, and me showed us at our best. It must have been intentional. Is she in an alliance with Avi or Kirstie? Or even Kevin or Scott? Is she just trying to avoid getting on our bad side because she's afraid of us?

I take my seat and Caesar asks me about my performance with Kirstie. "I didn't find out until just now that she recorded any of that." Do they believe me? "If I had realized, maybe I would have stayed on key at the start of the set." They laugh. They're on my side. Most of them, anyway.

"It's not the first time we've heard you sing. Tell us about the day of the reaping."

I'm not bothering to put on a persona. I'm gambling that the districts will respond better to sincerity. It's worked so far. It's hard wearing my heart on my sleeve in front of complete strangers, though, so I keep it short. "That's when Kevin told me the truth about the districts. When they took me away, I felt like I deserved to die for being a part of everything the Capitol did." Caesar opens his mouth to tell me I deserve no such thing, but I hold up a hand to cut him off. I look at the audience. "I know you feel the same way." It's not an accusation, just a sad fact. They're rooting for me, but they're not about to stop the Games.

"That's quite an outfit!" Caesar exclaims. Usually he's more subtle, but I can understand why, after everything that's just happened, he's changing the subject so abruptly. "You look stunning!" He is not wrong. "Who's it by?"

I stand. Caesar grimaces just a little, no doubt worried I'm about to start another scene like Tullia did. I am. I pull the hood down from my head, hold it for a moment, then let it fall. The entire jacket crumbles into fine dust and fibers. I rub my eyes and the makeup peels off without a trace. The seams of my shirt dissolve and the fabric falls away to reveal the coarse beige tunic of a harvester. People gasp and point. "Cinna made it," I answer. That much is obvious. Katniss saw him beaten and dragged away, so rumors of his death spread quickly, but now there can be no doubt that he's back. He's back for me, and it means a lot. I have more than the support of an incredible stylist. I have the support of a known ally of both the revolution and the Mockingjay.

Stepping forward, I proclaim, "I renounce the Capitol." I'm only reiterating what my costume has already said for me. "I renounce its lies and its false superiority." The crowd is chanting my name louder and louder. I feel exhilarated, and I have to shout to be heard. "I renounce the luxury and the comfort built on the overburdened backs of the districts." They scream and pump their fists in the air. I'm not finished yet.

None of this could have happened before the Capitol fell. Tullia would have been pulled off stage, forcibly if necessary, as soon as she stood up. She would never have tricked Caesar into playing her video for fear that the Capitol would punish her family. We're still trapped and powerless, but now there's no order and no one powerful enough to threaten us like that. We can't escape, but we do have a voice.

I slip my hand under my tunic and grasp a hilt at the small of my back. There's a blade tucked into my belt. There are guards everywhere, but they aren't trained like the Peacekeepers. This isn't blunted like the knives in the gym. I could pull it out and kill anyone. I could plunge it into my own heart and nobody could stop me in time. Did Cinna consider that when he concealed it in my costume? Caesar tries to calm the crowd, but they ignore him.

Despite Commander Paylor's efforts to make sure the districts all get what they need, with no government, the supply lines are beginning to fail. Some people have more than enough, and some have even less than they did before the Capitol fell. They're angry. The riots are increasingly violent. I pull the knife from my belt and hold it loosely by my side with my thumb against the blade. It takes a while before everyone notices it, but as they do, they tense and fall silent. I speak softly again. "I reject it all, but it's too late. You're demanding a sacrifice. You're demanding 23 human sacrifices. You're sending me into the arena with my most beloved friends, so I have the right to demand this one thing from you: make it count for something. Stop fighting and pull yourselves together. If I die, I don't want to leave behind a world in chaos, and if I live, I don't want to return to a war. This," I say, holding up the knife, "is not the solution."

I fall to one knee and drive the blade deep into the floor. Still on the ground, still clutching the handle of the knife with both hands, I look up. "I'm trapped and you're free. My life is over and your lives are just beginning. You're forcing me to kill, but nobody's forcing you, so unless you want to trade places, don't you dare. If you hate the Capitol, prove you're better."

The audience isn't quite sure how to respond. Am I criticizing them? I need them to value my opinion if I want them to listen to me. The secret to getting people to value your opinion is not having good opinions. The key is approval. "I know you're better." I smile a little and catch someone's eye. If I express too much approval, it will never be worth anything. If I show too little, they'll only resent me, which is even worse. It has to be rare, but still just barely obtainable. If I get the balance just right, they'll crave it. They'll work for it.

"That's very touching," Caesar says, trying to regain control. I return to my seat. "If you can sing to the tributes who are supposed to be your enemies, then maybe there's hope for peace."

"There had better be." This is my opportunity to endorse a course of action, but I let it pass. Kevin will cover all that. First, though, Avi will come out and talk about how strong a team we'll be. He's always good at that. I just wish he would act like he still believes it. I don't trust him anymore. Scott will be second to last. No matter how much the people like us, they won't commit if they think we're all going to die five minutes into the Games, so his first job is to look tall, strong, and powerful. He's probably changing into his sleeveless district four shirt even now. His second job is to butter people up a bit, tell them he loves them, thank them for their support, and so on. Everything goes a little better than expected. Finally, Caesar calls Kirstie to the stage. Her job is to wrap up by talking about all the ways the audience can support us throughout the Games. She nods at Avi before going out, and he nods back. I'm surprised he's responding at all.

Before sitting down, she pulls my knife from the floor with surprising ease. She plays with it while answering Caesar's questions, cleaning her already-clean nails and tracing delicate lines across her skin. When Caesar thanks her for her time, she says, "There's one last thing. Would you mind if Mitch and I sang you another song?" The audience roars in delight, and some of them are even standing on their chairs. Kirstie had better have an easy song in mind. She didn't warn me about this and I'm not warmed up. I wish she'd told me, but I won't leave her stranded. I step out and the crowd goes wild. I wanted them to like me best, but maybe I've been a little too successful. The others are going to hold it against me. Kirstie smiles and beckons me closer, then steps behind me and presses my knife against my throat.


	13. Chapter 13

Useless adrenaline throbs through my head. All I hear is Kirstie's quickened breath. Her free arm, strong and very tense, is holding me tightly across my chest. She's hugging me for support even as she uses my body like a shield. The audience is frozen. Somebody calls out, "Kirstie, you don't want to do this!" The stillness crumbles and now everyone is moving forward and shouting at her. She grips me tighter. I should have known she wouldn't wait to attack me until we were alone in the arena, not when she said herself that she couldn't beat me in single combat. I knew she wasn't trustworthy, but I thought I could rely on her because she needed me.

Clearly she doesn't. She must be Tullia's ally. That's the only sensible approach, when I look at it from her perspective. She has to align herself with people who are weaker, not stronger, and collect as many of them as possible. When the end comes, she needs to be the most powerful, not the second most powerful. Does she have a plan right now or is she improvising? I don't know which is worse. Neither. She's going to make demands, and whether or not they're met, she's going to kill me. She wouldn't have voided our alliance if she didn't intend for me to die. She can't afford to let me live after this.

I'm not going to have to kill anyone. I'm not going to have to win. I won't die cold and hungry. I was never going to survive; I can see that now. It's better this way. If Kirstie wins, maybe she'll be able to move on afterward. I would never be able to, but she's strong. She'll make a better victor than me. I just wish I had the time to find the words to say goodbye.

Panic courses through me every time she moves. The blade breaks my skin and I feel a bead of warm blood trickle down slowly. "Caesar, leave," she commands. He runs. Kirstie addresses the disarrayed guards now. "If you let anyone step onto this stage, I'll kill him." With sudden purpose, they form a perimeter around the stage and call out reinforcements from behind the curtain. "Kevin Olusola," she snarls, "you have thirty seconds to come out and confess the truth to all these people."

Immediately Kevin runs out stammering and shaking his head violently. His palms are up, and he stops short when Kirstie clicks her tongue. He's distressed, but he doesn't confess to anything. I guess I'll never know. Kirstie takes her hand off my chest and wraps it over my shoulder to tear her mic from her face. Leaning in so her lips almost touch my ears, she whispers flatly, "As soon as there's any distraction, attack me." She wants me to hit her so that she won't have to kill me in cold blood. That would be bad for her public image. "Just don't kill me. Do you trust me?" I haven't trusted her since the reaping, but I'll do it. It's my only chance, and if I fail, at least I'll still be helping her survive by playing along.

I shake my head just barely. "I know you're going to kill me. It's okay, Kirstie. It's okay. I'll do it."

She sighs. "Make it convincing."

"Goodbye," I whisper. There's so much more I wish I could say. She kisses my cheek and turns to Kevin.

"Time's up!"

"Kirstie, there's nothing!" He's waving his hands and sweating. Either he thinks she isn't serious, or his secret is worth more to him than my life. "Don't hurt him!"

I empty my mind. This is it. I can wait here for her to kill me, or I can take my meager chance. She has a knife and I have only my bare hands, but at least she'll pause to let me strike her. Maybe that will be enough. If not, my last act will help her live, even if it just looks like I'm trying to kill her. Scott bursts out from behind the curtain. The pressure from the knife eases instead of tightening. I grab Kirstie's wrist and pull my head back as I push the knife away from me. I twist her arm and spin to face her. She reaches her left hand toward the knife and I knock her to the ground with all my weight. I pin her under my knees and she swings at me me with her weak arm while I rend the knife from her grip with both my hands.

I free the blade and point it straight at her heart. Her arms drop to her sides and, with a faint smile, she whispers, "Bravo!" I lift it over my head and her eyes widen. I'll make it quick. I turn away. I should watch when I kill her, but I can't force myself to look.

"No!" Scott is too far away to stop me. I draw a deep breath and lift the knife up all the way. There's no point in putting it off. It has to be now.

Time slows as I push the knife down through the air. I never decided to, but I'm looking at her again. I can see her big eyes tracking the blade as it sinks closer. Even before it hits I can envision pain flashing across her face and then nothing. Her focus shifts to something above and behind me. I falter. Strong hands stay my arms mid-descent. "Mitch, let go!" Kevin pulls my arms backward until I can't hold the weapon anymore. Why is he defending her now? He was willing to let me die to withhold his secret, but he won't let her silence the one person who knows it. Kirstie grabs a tight fistful of my hair and yanks my head down into her incoming knuckles, punching me squarely in my left eye. I barely feel it, but I will as soon as my adrenaline fades.

Scott pulls me off Kirstie roughly and yanks her to her feet. His face is red and he's too livid to form coherent sentences. He pulls her arms behind her back and shoves her at the guards, then does the same to me. I'm alive! Kirstie is alive. They return us to to our building in separate vehicles and walk us up to our rooms. A few of them stand outside my door.

I have to talk to Scott. What does he think of me now? He won't understand, and I don't know how I can make him. If I can't trust Kirstie to honor our pact, there's no reason to postpone her death. It would only give her another opportunity to attack one of us. I don't know what I'll say to her. Maybe I won't be able to say anything.

The sun falls below the skyline. I haven't made a noise for hours, and the guards finally leave. I have to talk to the others right away. I need to know where we stand. I need to talk to Cinna and find out what the people are thinking. Everything was going so well until Kirstie attacked me. She could have killed me, and for what? For a public confession from Kevin? What could he, of all people, possibly have to confess? Maybe she was delusional. Maybe she was testing him. I'm about to find out. I knock on his door first. Just looking at me makes him sad. Scott won't look at me at all. Avi doesn't even answer when we knock. Finally, we come to Kirstie's room.

"Come in." She's pacing by the window.

I don't even know where to begin, but Kevin breaks the silence. "Avi wouldn't come."

"Of course not, you morons," she snaps. "He escaped. That was the whole point."


	14. Chapter 14

Kevin jumps over the bed and half-tackles, half-hugs Kirstie. "He's out?"

"He's out," she nods. This is incredible. Avi was going to be useful for a while, but ultimately he was just going to be a liability. It was going to be more of a risk to stay with him than to leave him.

I should be happy for him, but I can't change gears that fast. All I can think about is the quickly shifting dynamics between Kirstie, Scott, Kevin, and me. Kevin has just lost his only sure ally, but he's squeezing Kirstie like it doesn't even matter, like he doesn't see how much his chances have dropped. They haven't fallen as far as mine. It's like the ground has disappeared from under my feet. When I tried to kill Kirstie, I destroyed any trust Kevin had in me. Maybe Kirstie never trusted me, but she certainly doesn't now. I may even have lost Scott. He said he wanted to support me, but does he still feel the same after seeing me almost stab Kirstie in the heart? She just set Avi free. She's won Kevin's loyalty, and it won't be hard for her to take Scott also. I'm alone.

Scott's mouth is wide open. He's still wrapping his head around everything. Kirstie steps back from Kevin and says, "Get out. I need to talk to Mitch." Kevin kisses her forehead and pulls Scott away with him. "Sit." Kirstie is running her hands through her hair. I drop to the floor. "You were going to kill me!" Of course I was. She was going to kill me, so how could she have thought I would do any differently? She might still plan to kill me before the Games start, but she'll be smart about it. She'll put one of the other tributes up to it.

"I told you not to kill me! You didn't trust me. Why would I tell you to attack me if I was going to hurt you? What were you thinking?" She doesn't let me answer. "You said you knew I was going to kill you. Why did you think that? I honestly have no idea what was going through your head, but you said you'd attack me, and that's all I needed, so I thought it didn't matter. I just needed a distraction so Avi could get out, but then you actually tried to kill me!"

"You would have killed me."

"No!" She throws down her hands. "No! I need you, remember? And you need me!"

"You don't need me. You have Tullia and probably a dozen others. And now you have Kevin. Soon you'll take Scott. Everyone is on your side. You stopped needing me, so you broke your promise to get Kevin to confess and to get Avi out, and once it was broken, you had to kill me. You couldn't trust me anymore, and you knew it might be your best chance. You just needed me to attack you so the people wouldn't hate you for doing it. You should have cut my throat when you had the chance. You shouldn't have tried to make it look good."

"I wouldn't have! How stupid do you think I am? I thought you would trust me!"

"I thought you would drive the knife to through me as soon as I laid a hand on you."

"That would have been the worst plan in the history of the Hunger Games, Mitch. And even if that was my plan, don't you think I would have put up more of a fight? Do you honestly think flailing my arm at you was the best I could do? It was for show." It makes sense. It sounds true... She's telling the truth. She never broke our agreement. I did. The weight of what's happened finally hits me. I tried to kill Kirstie.

"I thought you were doing great," she says. "You were acting perfectly. I was so relieved you didn't hesitate to hit me. Everyone was watching us. Avi could have walked straight out the front door and nobody would have noticed. But then you tried to kill me! You had the knife and you had me trapped. I wasn't fighting anymore, but you almost impaled me! You don't trust me. You destroyed our contract. I want it back, though." I look up. "We have to trust each other or it will never work. Here's the deal. I'll trust you when you tell me everything, and you'll trust me when I cover for you. I'll tell Scott and Kevin that I told you to do all that when I whispered in your ear, that it was all an act and you were going to stop short."

This is more than I deserve. What am I going to tell, her, though? The only thing she doesn't know about is my understanding with Scott. I can't make something up and risk her finding out. She probably already knows a lot more than she's letting on. Maybe she's been talking to Scott behind my back. I have to be honest.

"Scott doesn't want to win. He's going to help me. He's on my side."

Her face turns sour. "Mitch, he's playing us. He told me the same thing."


	15. Chapter 15

I can't believe it. Maybe he told her the same thing, but he was lying. Why should he lie to her and not me, though? Because he and I are so close? After the things I told him, no. Maybe he decided to give me a taste of my own medicine. Kirstie is clenching her fists angrily, but I only feel hollow. After I broke down and confessed, I honestly believed, even though it was impossible, that he forgave me. I wanted it to be true. I felt so liberated when he stood by me, but all this time, ever since the moment he said, "I don't want to win," he's been plotting against me. What did he think of me when I told him how I lied to him? He made me feel so much better, but none of it was real. At the time, I wondered how he knew just what to say, and now I know. It was easy. All he had to do was act out the inverse of what he really felt. His acceptance and support were sweet, comforting masks to hide hard, bitter rejection and hatred. When I poured my black heart out to him, he pretended it didn't bother him, just like he knew I would have pretended. He's paying me back for every twisted lie I've told him. He's just better at it than I am. At least now I know I'm not the only one without a soul.

"I could tear his eyes out," Kirstie growls. "I should have known he'd take your side. He just seemed so sincere. I'm such an idiot."

"He's fooling us both. Nothing changes. Just keep acting like you don't know. We'll kill him, and then you can do whatever you want to his pretty blue eyes." I thought I had an ally. I thought I had my friend back. I should never have stopped thinking of him as anything but my enemy. I've grossly underestimated what a threat he is. I've overestimated his character. He's done nothing to me that I haven't done to him, though. Now that I know what he really thinks of me, all the guilt that I felt before I confessed weighs on me even more heavily. It doesn't even matter that he's playing me like he plays a piano. What hurts is how much he must loathe me to keep doing it. It's all the more painful because I know it's my own doing, that he's right to hate me.

Part of me still can't comprehend it. Part of me wants to go to him right now, tell him I know he's lying, and talk it out. It's because last time I told him the truth, it went better than I could have dreamed. All that was nothing but a cruel lie.

Kirstie composes herself before calling Kevin and Scott back. The anger drops from her face like it was never there. It's unnerving to see how effortlessly she hides it. She can lie in front of me because she knows we're the same. It's nothing like the reassurance I felt from Scott's affirmation, but the bond of mutual understanding between us is precious in its own way. It has survived in spite of everything. She held a knife to my throat and I tried to kill her. She knows I wasn't acting or bluffing, and there's no point in even trying to deny it. I have a black eye now, but she still wants to be my ally. She's not judging me. I touch her arm just before she walks out to find the others. "I'm sorry." She just nods.

Scott and Kevin are immensely relieved when Kirstie tells them I wasn't going to kill her. Or maybe Kevin is relieved and Scott is just playing along. Maybe they're both acting. I'm not sure what to think of Kevin anymore. I'm sure he won't tell me, but I have to ask anyway. "Kevin, what's the secret Kirstie wanted you to confess? Why didn't you try to save me?"

Kirstie answers for him. "There is no secret. It was all part of the act." Maybe she's covering for him just like she's covering for me even now, but knowing Kevin, it's probably the truth.

There's one more thing I don't understand. "Why Avi?" Kevin and Scott are probably already wondering the same thing. Scratch that. Going by their expressions, it hasn't even occurred to them yet that they could all have escaped while Kirstie was holding me hostage. Confusion, betrayal, and outrage fight for control of their faces.

Kirstie squirms and purses her lips. "It wasn't supposed to be just Avi. It was supposed to be all three of you. I should have told you ahead of time. I just... He said he'd tell you after you both interviewed so it wouldn't distract you. He was supposed to take you with him. He must not have had the chance." Of course he had the chance. She's just too kind to admit he ran away and left Kevin and Scott behind. Why wouldn't he take them? It would hardly even have been an extra risk. It's not like him. "I called Kevin out to signal that I was in position. I knew something was wrong when he actually came. I thought Avi had told you, Kevin, and that you decided to stay behind for some reason. But he didn't tell you, did he?" Kevin doesn't answer. Scott spews out curses, but Kirstie stops him. "He'll help us from the outside. He hasn't abandoned us. I'm sure he had a good reason." Her face isn't very reassuring. It doesn't matter to me, though. Avi abandoned Kevin and Scott, but he couldn't have saved me even if he wanted to. I had to be part of the diversion. Before I found out Scott was lying, I would have been selfishly glad that he didn't leave with Avi. Even now, it's probably best for me that he's staying. I can't trust him anymore, but I wouldn't live long without him.

I leave him fuming and work out until well past midnight. My thoughts plague me when I'm awake, but sleep is no better. I don't have dreams now, only nightmares. I die a dozen times before I get out of bed each morning. I'm suffocated, stabbed, beaten, and ripped apart in as many ways as my painfully creative subconscious can imagine. Tonight, though, I'm the murderer. I'm stabbing Kirstie until my arms are dripping with her blood. She's suffering, but I can't make her die. Avi rushes forward when she cries for help, but then he just stands over us with his arms crossed dispassionately. Now Kirstie is on top of me, blood pouring freely from her chest as she chokes me. Avi is gone and Scott is sneering at me as I gasp.

I wake and stare wide-eyed into the pitch black of my room, looking for something else to think about so I'll forget the dream. It's not real. It's terribly close, though. I tried to kill Kirstie and she's going to try to kill me. Avi has left us. Scott despises me. They've become the complete opposites of the people I knew, the Scott who held me on the day of the reaping and the Avi who urged me to save myself while he fought off attackers. What about Kevin? Has he changed? He seems so innocent. Maybe even he's pretending, or maybe he just hasn't let the Games get to him yet. They will eventually. And Kirstie? She hasn't changed either. She's been fighting for her life this whole time. She was covered in blood even before the reaping began. Avi said her dog attacked the mob, but she must have helped. She didn't help Avi escape out of generosity. She did it because she was afraid of him. If she had thought Scott was on her side, though, why did she want to let him escape?

She's like me. I can understand her if I put myself in her shoes. I play through the whole day from her perspective. I nod at Avi and he nods back. I finish my interview and I call Mitch out. I could summon one of the others instead, but it's safest to choose the one the crowd likes the most. That way, they'll be less likely to attack me while I'm threatening him. I trick the guards into coming away from the tributes. I call Kevin to signal to Avi. No, that doesn't make any sense. Avi doesn't need a signal. He can just wait until nobody is watching and then leave. He's supposed to have told Kevin and Scott the plan by now, so Kevin shouldn't come out. If Kevin doesn't come out, calling for him only draws attention to them. Of all the signals I could have picked, why choose one that involves Kevin? Because I need him. I never intended for Avi to take Scott or Kevin. I can only afford to let one of them go, and it's Avi I trust the least.

How do I stop him from taking the others? I know where he's escaping to. I threaten to help them catch him if he takes the others. Just to make sure it's working, though, I call Kevin out. He comes and I carry on with the plan, telling Mitch to attack me. He thinks I'm going to kill him! He agrees to do what I say anyway. He'll be pleasantly surprised when I don't cut right through him. He holds the knife to my heart and I whisper my congratulations on his performance. He raises the knife. He's going to kill me. Kevin stops him and I give Mitch a good, hard punch in the eye. It didn't go perfectly, but the plan worked. Now I just have to make sure he doesn't try to kill me again. I need that alliance, and he needs it too. Or does he? What if he doesn't need me to help him kill Scott? Why else would he be willing to lose me? If that's the problem, I just have to get him to doubt Scott. It should be easy. Liars are always the first to believe someone is lying.

Avi didn't betray Kevin and Scott, Kirstie did. More importantly, Kirstie was lying about Scott. He's still on my side. He always has been.


	16. Chapter 16

How Cinna manages to sneak back into the building now that everyone knows he's alive is a profound mystery to me, but I'm not about to interrupt his overview of the interviews to ask about it. "Kirstie, supporting Tullia was a good move. Mitch, your control over the audience was incredible. Kevin, you did an excellent job of focusing on the important points and sidestepping all the political land mines. Scott, they loved how much you loved them. Kirstie, asking to sing with Mitch was a stroke of genius, especially after Tullia's touching video. Why couldn't you have actually done that? We're trying to promote peace, and you hold a knife to your best friend's throat? The same knife he scorned in his rousing 'Violence Is Not the Answer' speech?" Cinna is getting angrier and angrier as he talks, but Kirstie is unaffected, and maybe even a little bored. Facing almost certain death makes it easier to stop caring what people think of you.

"And you, Mitch! Why did you attack her? It's not like she would actually have hurt you." He's wrong there. Kirstie would absolutely have killed me if she had to. "And then you tried to kill her on live television in front of hundreds of millions of people! Everything you said about nonviolence stopped meaning anything then." Pacifism is not my top priority. Being alive is my top priority. Maybe even my only priority. "And everything Avi said about unity went out the window when he left." Kevin snarls audibly. Cinna checks himself. "I'm sorry. Of course it's good that Avi is free. You really made a mess of your message, though." He doesn't care if we die as long as we die in the name of peace.

He sends all of us away except for Kirstie. They talk for hours. I wish I knew what they were saying. When Kirstie leaves and Cinna steps out to get Kevin, I slip into the closet, close the door, and make myself comfortable. Cinna has the kind of face that makes you want to tell him everything. This is going to be very informative.

"Kevin, how are you holding up?"

"I'm not." That's all he says. He's holding up better than any of the rest of us, but I guess that's not saying much.

Cinna moves on like he's going through a mental checklist of questions. By not responding, he makes it clear he's not passing judgment. It makes him easier to talk to. "What's your strategy for the Games?"

"I plan to help the Trio as long as I can. I just don't want to hurt anyone."

Again, Cinna listens, but moves directly to his next question. "From your perspective, what happened at the interviews?"

Kevin sighs. "I was so scared Kirstie was going to kill him. I didn't know about the plan to get Avi out. I couldn't stop her. There was no big secret for me to confess to. Except maybe... No, there was nothing she would be mad about. I was so relieved when Mitch freed himself, but then he attacked Kirstie. When I intervened he resisted me, like he was really going to do it. It was part of the plan, though. Kirstie told him to do all that. He was going to stop short." I'm relived he believes that.

"He frightens me, though." I frighten him? He's twice my size. "He's messed up. I wish there were some way I could help him. " I know I'm messed up. I've been telling myself it's because I'm a tribute, but he's a tribute too, and he's not only sane, but decent. Beyond decent. He seems more worried about me than about himself. I feel horrible. I shouldn't be eavesdropping. This was a bad decision.

"You're remarkable." Cinna sounds sad, and I remember why I can't be like Kevin. Kevin is either going to change or die. "I'm publishing your tax records."

"How did you even-" Kevin sounds almost panicked. "No. Don't do it. How I spend my money is nobody's business."

"Spend? Give. You've been supporting the districts for years. If they recognize that, maybe they won't hate the Capitol as much." I wonder what else Kevin has done that I don't know about.

"I don't want recognition."

"Come on. Think of the bigger picture."

"It'll only backfire anyway. They'll see how much money I make and hate us for it. Please don't." Kevin isn't usually this cynical. He's just trying to persuade Cinna. Humility is so important to him that he actively hides his generosity. Even I never knew about this until now. Still, he makes a good point.

They're silent for a time. I can imagine Cinna weighing his options. "Okay," he says at last. "Good luck, Kevin. Send Scott here on your way back, if you would." Cinna isn't leaving the room. I'm trapped. At least he's not asking for me next.

"Have a seat." I hear Scott maneuver into a chair made for someone smaller. I have no idea what he's going to tell Cinna, and I don't want to know. I'm terrified that Kirstie really was telling the truth. Maybe Scott did trick us both. Maybe he only tricked me and he really is on Kirstie's side. Even if she was lying, I'm afraid to know what he thinks of me now. I don't want to hear it.

"Cinna, what's going on?" Scott sounds angry. Why ask that? It's the very question Cinna is trying to answer for himself by talking to Scott. "Why did you really give Mitch that knife?" We went over the whole floor-stabbing routine ahead of time. Scott knew I would have it. He's accusingly Cinna of being involved in Kirstie's plan.

Cinna ignores Scott's words completely. "Tell me what you think of Avi."

"He left us behind. He put Mitch in danger. What do you think I think?"

"And what about Kirstie?"

"Maybe she was going to try to get out with Mitch after the rest of us were free. Maybe she could have held him hostage until they got to safety." That would never have worked. "But I barged in like an idiot. I really thought for a moment that she was going to..." He can't even say it. "Kirstie told him to act it all out for the diversion for us, but I think he would have done it if Kevin didn't stop him. He told me he would kill us, but I didn't realize how much he meant it until that moment."

"He told you what?"

"He told me he wants to live, and he'll kill us if that's what it takes."

"And you believed him? If it's actually true, why would he admit it?"

"You don't understand what it means to be a tribute. No matter what you do, you hate yourself. He needed a friend. I needed one too. It was hard to accept then, and it's even harder now that I get how serious he is. I made up my mind last night, though. I've decided to stand by him to the end, even if he lies to me. Even if he betrays me. Even if he kills Kevin and Kirstie." I'm not worthy of the tiniest scrap of his friendship, but he's saying it's mine wholly and unconditionally. "But I'm so afraid I'll fail. In the end, I'm afraid I won't have the courage to let him win. I'm afraid the Games will destroy my resolve." Scott is destroying my resolve. The thought I've been blocking out at every avenue slips past all my defenses and into my soul. I have to die.

When Scott goes, I don't wait for him to come back and tell Cinna he can't find me. I step out and sit down. I don't care anymore if Cinna knows what I heard. I answer all his questions honestly. I'm quickly shifting into a new state, no better than before. The only way I can give up is to give up completely. I just don't care anymore. I don't care about my family and friends on the outside. I don't care how sad they'll be. I don't care who wins. I don't care if there's peace or war. I don't care if I die quickly or slowly and painfully. Nothing is good. None of it matters.

I don't go to the gym or to my room. I don't go to eat. I just wander the building aimlessly. Apathy feels like food poisoning, but I don't care about that either. I go down each flight of stairs and wander across the whole level until I find another stairwell. The Training Center is bigger than I realized. I pause near the middle of the twelfth floor. There's singing. The voice is untrained, but it's beautiful. I find where it's coming from and peer through the crack in the door. It's Katniss. She looks skeletal and a bit too yellow. Softly and very tentatively, I join in her song. She walks to the door and peers out at me through the crack, still singing. Our first verse together is a little rough. She's not singing it quite the way I expect. Where she comes from, the tune is different. As we continue, I learn her version and start to match her voice better. I realize I haven't sung at all since my performance for Tullia. It's no wonder I'm falling apart.

The song ends and she begins another. I don't know it, so I close my eyes and listen, then hum along. "Thank you," she says quietly when it's over. She keeps watching me.

"You're welcome," I reply instinctively. "You're welcome." I mean it this time. "I'm Mitch. I'm a tribute from the Capitol." I sigh. "I'm going to die."

"It's my fault. I wanted the Games. I voted for them. I wanted revenge for Prim. I guess I got my revenge. It wasn't Snow or the Capitol, it was Coin. Coin killed Prim. Gale... Coin killed Prim." She leans her forehead against the door. "Do you have a sister?" I nod. It hurts to think about her. "Then don't say you're going to die. Go home to your sister."

"Okay." Maybe my sister loves me unconditionally like Scott does. Maybe she won't hate me if I win. I sit down and we sing together for hours until Katniss falls asleep in the middle of a lullaby. Her body is failing, and she's letting it. I keep on singing, hoping it will make her dreams sweeter.


	17. Chapter 17

The results are in. Commander Paylor has been elected president. She's going to take care of the districts. She's going to bring peace to the Capitol. She's going to restore law and order. She's going to fix everything, everything except the Games. They're beginning in less than a month.

The vile creature they call Lepidus Steward, head gamemaker, was Paylor's strongest opposition. She's a thousand times more capable and a million times more worthy than him, but he's rich and influential. He would have won if she hadn't compromised on the Games. She had no choice, but now she's here, right in front of all the tributes, to apologize to us personally.

She's not saying she's sorry for her decision. It was the right one. She's not making excuses either, though. She's acknowledging out loud that she's let us down. It's a courtesy to us, and I appreciate it, but I think she's also doing this for herself. To herself. It would have been easy for her to make the call and not look back, to tell herself that she can't be blamed. Instead, even though she knows it was the only reasonable thing she could have chosen, she's forcing herself to look at the consequences. She's holding herself responsible. When she made the decision in the first place, she took it into consideration that she would make herself do this, and now she's following through. She has character.

The implication for me, as someone who also has to choose between two wrong options, is that I should resolve to face the consequences no matter what happens. It will help me make a sound decision. Resolving to face the consequences, though, means resolving to face Scott's family after I kill him, to talk to Kirstie's mother after taking her beloved child, and to apologize to Kevin's siblings and parents for cutting his life short. It means facing the families of all the tributes I kill or allow to die. It means that, or it means facing death. I can't do either. Paylor chose the selfish decision, but she chose it because the alternative was worse for everyone. I'm choosing the selfish decision, and I'm choosing it because I'm selfish. I haven't had enough time to prepare for the Games, and every day that passes is one day closer to our deaths, but every second I have to live with myself is agonizingly slow. I'm almost relieved when Lepidus Steward walks in. Now I have someone even more loathsome than myself to deplore.

He grins at Paylor. He lost the election, but he still has the nerve to gloat over getting to keep the Games. There's more than Paylor's campaign promise keeping them running. Her authority is tenuous right now. If she breaks her word, she'll be forced out of office and the Games will go on. She nods curtly at Steward and walks toward the exit. Kirstie catches her before she goes and whispers something in her ear. Paylor's expression is suddenly very deliberately neutral.

Before I can ask Kirstie what she's up to, Steward's sticky voice announces, "It's ranking day!" He's looking at us like we're supposed to be excited. I hate that man.

Usually ranking happens before the interviews, so I thought we were skipping it this year, but it seems Steward just put it off until after his campaign. We'll get a score between one and twelve to indicate how fit we are for battle. At the time of the reaping, I was probably around a five. I've improved a lot since then. I've bulked up a bit, but my main focus has been on running, both sprinting and distance. It's tedious, and I don't understand why anyone enjoys it, but I'm getting fast. When I'm not running, I'm playing with knives. Hitting targets isn't so different from hitting notes. It's just a matter of practicing, and I've always been good at that.

More recently, I've added a new component to my training routine. I fight Scott. Considering how obviously beneficial it is for both of us, it took a surprisingly long time to get him to agree to it, and even then he went easy on me. I didn't complain. I just beat him up. He wasn't so gentle the next time. Besides fighting me, Scott has been lifting weights and learning about plants. Kirstie has been running with me and practicing trapping. Kevin has been doing everything. I'm working harder than I have in my life, but when I see him running uphill with a backpack and heavy gear while reading about wildlife, I feel lazy by comparison. He really knows how to apply himself.

When my turn comes, I show the judges what I can lift, I demonstrate my level of fitness by jumping rope for approximately forever, and then I pick up three knives. I stand forty feet away from a dummy and put one through it's eye, wedge one in its neck, and drive one through its heart. I collect the knives and do it again with a moving target this time.

Impressing the judges isn't especially important this year. Usually getting a high score means getting more sponsors, but very few people in the Capitol have managed to cling to their wealth, and the districts have little to offer. It's more important that they like me than that they sponsor me. If I'm popular, the audience will want me to live longer, so the gamemakers probably won't crush me with a boulder before nightfall on day one.

The other tributes still have to take their turns, so I can't stay in the gym after my demonstration. I go to the twelfth floor instead. I haven't visited Katniss since we first met. She's in a fragile, unstable condition, and even though I think singing helped, seeing a tribute can't have been good for her. Besides that, I was a little afraid that nobody would answer my knock- that she'd be dead. I want to tell her about Paylor, though. They knew each other. I also just want to sing with her and take my mind of the Games.

When I arrive, her door is ajar. Haymich is inside, and Katniss is lying down. She has deteriorated so much that I don't think she can stand, or even sit up. If Haymich weren't talking to her, I would think she was nothing but an emaciated corpse. Nurses come and lift her up. She's light as a bird, and they don't need a stretcher. I open the door wider to let them carry her away. Haymich lingers for a moment, then follows. I don't want to end up like him. I don't want to end up like Katniss.

In the evening, Kirstie comes to my room to watch the broadcast of the scores with me. She gets a five, but she doesn't seem upset. She must have held back during the judging. She wants people to underestimate her. Scott gets a ten, and I get an eight. Avi doesn't get anything because he isn't here. It feels strange leaving him out when I think of us. They announce Kevin's score last. He has a twelve. It's an incredible score, but I'm not surprised.

I am surprised when Avi's face appears on the television. It's obscured by bold white letters that read, "Stop the Games." The background is black. There's no clue about his location.

"FREEZE!" Kirstie shouts at the screen. She runs out and returns with Kevin. "Tell me the notes he's singing." She plays the video and Avi does indeed begin to sing. He delivers a sad, beautiful aria. Kevin names the notes and Kirstie writes them down. She replays the whole song and marks their durations while circling some and underlining others. "Eyes closed, head left," she mutters. She crosses out most of the notes, then writes the alphabet across the top of the page and connects the remaining notes to letters. After several iterations, she exclaims, "He's done it!" The letters on the page look better now. There are no more "Q"s, "X"s, and "Z"s. It still doesn't make sense, though. "Look!" She jabs her finger at the paper and Kevin's eyes widen. I still don't see it. "Get Scott!"

Scott hisses at Avi's face on the screen. He hasn't forgiven him. Kevin shakes his head and says, "He's helping us. He's found the location of the arena." What? I look at the letters Kirstie wrote again. T-S-E-R-O-F-N-I-A-R. She knew, and Kevin figured it out. It's just backwards now. Rain forest. Great.


	18. Chapter 18

Cinna is a new man. He doesn't seem to realize he's changed, but he's practically floating. Things must be going a lot better in the Capitol. We haven't heard news from him since just after the interviews, but we've gathered a rough understanding from what comes on TV. The districts figured out how to share with each other without administration from the Capitol. Most people got access to food and basic necessities, and the riots began to die down. They started attacking the Capitol in more organized ways. They sabotaged the infrastructure and cut off supplies. By the time of the election, it was the people of the Capitol, not the districts, who were starving. It got so bad that some swallowed their misguided pride and tried to find work, but they didn't have the skills, and nobody would hire them even if they did. We're hated.

After a few failed attempts, the governors of the districts finally succeeded in arranging the election. Now Paylor has already started a new police force and restored the hospitals to full operation. She's instituted an apprenticeship program to train people from the Capitol to do real work. They hate it, but at least they can eat again. She's put Plutarch Heavensbee in charge of a campaign to fight discrimination against what they're now calling "Capitol survivors."

With his fears of war alleviated, Cinna is acting very differently. Before, he wasn't really helping us. He was using us. Now, even though he doesn't seem to notice the difference, he cares about keeping us alive because we're people, not because we're useful. He's updating us on how the districts reacted to the interviews and everything that followed. We still haven't heard how they responded, and I've been trying not to think about it. For a long time, no one told them Avi had escaped. The gamemakes covered it up, hoping they'd find him. "Half the people hated you and loved Kirstie," Cinna tells me, "and the other half hated Kirstie and loved you." That means all the people loved either me or Kirstie, so it's a good thing we're allies. "Word got out eventually that Avi was missing, and they realized it was a diversion. Now the popular theory is that you're in love with Avi, Kirstie." She gives a magnificent eye roll. "And most people think you're an evil monster for trying to kill her, Mitch." He has no idea how right they are.

"Will you let them know he was in on it?" Kirstie asks. That's very gracious of her, seeing as I was not, in fact, in on it, and I was, in fact, going to kill her. I still have nightmares about it. I can still see her pupils dilating and her lips parting in shock. Every time I remember it, it's even more vivid. "Gracious" isn't quite the word for what she's doing, though. "Calculated" is more accurate. She thinks I'm on her side. She doesn't realize that I know she lied about Scott. I'm not sure whose side I'm on.

Cinna nods, then moves on to the subject of Avi. "His message is working better than I would have expected. That's thanks to Paylor. Shortly after it aired, she published the budget for the Games. They're expensive. She's starting to win people over. She doesn't even have a majority, though, and it would take almost unanimous support for her to stop this without starting more riots and being forcibly removed from office. And honestly, she might not be willing to break her word without first persuading them. It won't work, but I have to admire her for trying. Maybe it's not much comfort to you, but it at least means the Games won't happen again next year. The bad news is that Steward isn't taking this well at all. He's upset, and that does not bode well for any of you." There are a million ways he can make our last days miserable.

Every time Cinna stops talking, a smile creeps back onto his face. I stare for a moment and then I get it. It's not about the new government. It's about Katniss. He's happy because she's made it. She's finally free. I just about punch myself when realize I never told her he's alive. I hope he'll visit her soon.

Before he goes, he hugs us all. This is the last time he'll see us before the Games. I wonder which of us he wants to win. One more week to go.

I am a complete wreck. I try again and again to write a letter for my parents. Little wrinkles form under the tears on my paper, but the ink doesn't bleed because there is none. The pages are blank. I don't know what to say. I have to do this, though. I close my eyes and put my pen against the paper again to write down random words. Eventually I force out the first sentence, which I've known all along. "I love you." I write in cursive and connect the words together. Iloveyou. I don't let myself lift the pen from the paper or stop moving it. Iamsosorry.

Many hours later, I have dozens of sheets of paper scattered around me. I've written pages, but almost everything is scratched out. At last, I copy down what's left onto a new piece of paper.

I love you.

Thank you so much for everything you've done. You raised me, you loved me, and you supported me in absolutely everything. I'm so grateful. I haven't lived up to it. If I ever was a good person, I'm not anymore. I intend to do unspeakable things, and I'm ashamed. Please don't watch the Games. I'm so sorry. No matter what I do or become, though, I know you'll always love me and support me, and that means everything. I love you and I want to see you again. I'll give anything to come back, but if I don't make it, please honor my memory by forgiving the districts and by loving my sister like you always have. Finally, please be there for whomever is left of Pentatonix. Even if one of them kills me, they're my family too.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Mitch

I fold it and I kiss it. I write my parents' address on the outside. I don't know if they still live there now that so much has changed, but I hope it will find them. It's five in the morning, and I wander the building until I see a custodian. "Take it," I beg. It's not sealed. I didn't even have an envelope. "Please send it." He looks surprised. "Please!" I make him accept the letter and I stare at him until he nods.

I barely make it back to my bed before I fall asleep. I dream that I'm singing, but there's no sound coming out. The audience is looking right through me. I scream and nobody listens. I don't cast a shadow. I'm a ghost. I'm dead. I panic, shouting and waving my arms, but they don't respond. Kirstie comes out and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. There's a hole in her chest. Scott joins us. He has bruises all around his neck. Avi walks through us. He can't see us. Kevin comes on stage and they perform together. It sounds so bare with just the two of them. It's sad. Nobody can hear us, but we start to sing anyway because we have to.


	19. Chapter 19

They push me onto the hovercraft. There are 24 seats in a circle, all facing each other. Kirstie is on my right. She's a survivor. She'll do whatever it takes to live. She'll try to kill me. I have to kill her first. I want to live.

Next to Kirstie sits Kevin. Kevin who scored a twelve. Kevin who's hiding something. Kevin whom I have to kill. What a tragic waste! Of all of us, he has the most potential, but I want to live.

Next is Fortis, the large young man whose very name means strong. The towering mountain who dwarfs even Scott. He has to die. I want to live.

Next sit Janice and Julius, the twins. They hate each other, but they operate like a unit. There's no overlap between them, so together they have twice the skills of an individual. She catches fish and he collects plants. She fights with a sling and he with a tomahawk. Even if all four of us attack them, we won't be able to kill them without sustaining injuries. We'll have to ambush them. I want to live.

Julius's chair is next to Paula's. She can climb a rope, a cliff face, a tree, anything. She'll adapt well to the rain forest. She'll attack us from above and we'll be dead before we know what's happening. We have to kill her very early on before she gets the chance to surprise us. I want to live.

Romulus is the smallest. He can swim, but that's about it. He has already given up. It's a pity he's going to die, but I want to live.

Nobody is sitting at Romulus's right. It's where Avi would be. Avi doesn't have to die. I'm finally happy for him. It won't be easy for him to watch the Games, but I would trade places with him in a heartbeat. I don't want to do this. I want to live.

Antonia is closing her eyes for a nap. I cannot fathom how she can sleep at a time like this. She's smart. No doubt she has a plan to survive, but I want to live.

Coros is about 25. He's been training in hand-to-hand combat. It's best not to get too close to him. Maybe I can put a dagger through him from a distance. I don't want to kill him, but I want to live.

Ilene is also among the older tributes. She has a hot temper and a natural ruthlessness. She'll make a weapon out of anything. I suspect she's in an alliance with Cassia, who's sitting next to her. Cassia was already in peak physical condition when she came, which has left her lots of time to train with all the weapons in the gym. She's not going to hide and wait for people to kill each other off. She's going to hunt us down. I can't let her beat us. I want to live.

Tullia is across from me. She hasn't replaced her eye or even put on an eye patch. There's just an empty, slightly drooping socket. It didn't take long to get used to it. Tears are streaming down from her good eye, but the other seems not to be able to cry. She looks up at me and I turn my gaze quickly to the next tribute, Titus. He's lanky and quick, but only about fifteen. He's jittering with nervousness. I'm nervous too. I desperately want to live.

Cole is looking up. Slack cords weave through the metal rafters above us. He's rubbing his throat. Even after months of thinking about nothing but death, and even though I plan for him to die, it makes me nauseous to think of what he's contemplating. I don't want that. I want to live.

In another life, Stella might have been my friend. She's confident, outspoken, and genuinely weird. She's been studying poison. She's definitely not going to be my friend in this life. I want to live.

Jordan is useless. He hasn't even attempted to train for the Games. He complains constantly and always brings up sensitive subjects. I won't have to kill him. Someone else will do it for me. I don't hate him enough to want him to die, but I do want to live.

Yvette fights with a mace. Right now, she's biting her nails, but not because she's nervous. She's shaping them into sharp points. I wish I'd thought of that. I don't want to get in her way. I want to live.

Elias is my age. He's opening a bag and he looks queasy. When he's on solid ground, though, he's a good archer. Like me, he came in knowing nothing useful except how to practice. It's not just about repetition; it's about constant improvement. He understands that better than most, but, like the others, he has to die. I want to live.

Mariah hasn't been doing well. At first she trained with swords every day, but she gradually stopped coming to the gym altogether. She's been locked up in her room for the past week. There's pain in her expression, but mostly hopelessness. I pity her, but I need her to die. I want to live.

Keith is short, but powerful. He can lift almost twice what I can. He's not as fast as me, but he can run longer. He'll fight with a club or with his bare hands. He's determined, but so am I. I want to live.

Huan frightens me. She fights without rhythm or grace, only precision. She targets eyes and pressure points. She knows all the most efficient ways to kill someone. I can't let her kill me. I want to live.

Scott. Scott is next to me. He's calming himself with the same breathing exercises he uses when he warms up to sing. I rest my head on his shoulder and hum softly so that only he can hear over the sound of the aircraft. He's going to be the hardest to kill, and not just because he has a ten. I want him to live.

We're airborne all day long. They feed us cold soup from steel cans with the lids already removed and the edges bent over safely. Nobody says a word to anyone else the entire time. I'm shivering. Will I be alive tomorrow? Who will kill me? Will I bleed to death? Will it hurt? Maybe I'll starve. Maybe I'll freeze. Maybe I'll drown. Maybe I'll die of thirst. Maybe I'll lose my mind. Or maybe I'll suffer through everything, kill my friends, and still die in the end.

We land. Our seat belts lock so we can't get up. The doors open, and hot, humid air pours in. Three men board. They start with Julius, the closest tribute to the exit. The first man inserts a tracker into his arm with a fat, mechanized metal syringe, the second cuffs him, and the third escorts him out. The men make their way slowly around the circle. I'll be fifth to last.

Eventually the first man comes to Huan to inject her GPS. She holds out her left arm, then grabs the needle with her right and jabs it all the way into his neck. She shoves her palm hard against his nose and reclaims the syringe as he falls over backward. His head cracks as it hits the floor. I start unscrewing my restraints from the chair with my soup can. This could be my chance. The other two men rush toward Huan. With a flick of her wrist, the needle is embedded in the tall one's eye. He shrieks. The other stays just clear of her reach and unclips an electric stun gun from his belt. He edges forward cautiously. Suddenly Scott kicks the weapon from his trembling hand. It flies past my face in slow motion and Kirstie catches it midair. He turns and lunges at her, but I stick out my leg and he trips into her lap. She rams the stun gun into his neck as she discharges it. Huan crushes her soup can underfoot to create two sharp corners, which she uses to cut at her seatbelt. I get the first screw out of mine and wedge the can under it to pry off the rest of the connector. The plastic attachment snaps and I wriggle out. Huan frees herself just after me, and Scott follows.

Fortis, Kevin, Janice, and Kirstie are still trapped, but they're making progress. Kirstie has taken a second stun gun from the unconscious guard in front of her and tossed the first to Kevin. She's now digging through the guard's pockets. She finds a utility knife and rips through her restraints quickly.

More guards start to board the plane. They must have waited to secure the other tributes before coming. Scott and Huan block the entrance and take them down one at a time. She's gripping the needle in one hand and her can in the other. Scott is swinging with just his fists. I run toward the cabin. It's locked. Kirstie frees Kevin and then Janice and Fortis. Janice takes the tall guard's belt and wraps it thrice around her fist with the buckle facing outward. She and Kirstie step forward to let Scott and Huan catch their breath. A gas canister flies in through the entrance. My eyes start to burn and I feel dizzy, but I grab it and throw it back out.

I see a fire alarm and pull it. Sprinklers start and the cabin door clicks. I can open it now. "Fortis!" He comes immediately when I call. "Lift off now!" I shout at the pilot.

Her hands are raised. She's terrified of us, but she's shaking her head violently. "It won't run when the fire alarm is active."

My eyes are burning again. The air is quickly turning thick white, and I can't see where the gas is coming from. I feel like I'm drowning. I fall to my knees.

When I wake, I can't move my limbs. I'm tethered to a table. There's a wire taped to my wrist and my arm feels sore. There's a tracker inside. I lie very still and keep my eyes shut. Maybe they'll begin without me. Something starts beeping. I slow my breathing and try to control my heart beat, but I don't know how. I hear people rushing in. Someone unbuckles my ankles and wrists, and eight people lift me up and carry me out. They push me into an iron cage. I can't even extend my elbows. My heart is pounding. Someone pulls out a phone. I memorize the sound the numbers make as he dials. "He's ready."

I can just barely make out Steward's response. "Oh, good. Just in time. Let the Games begin!"

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	20. Chapter 20

Eight people carry my iron cage down a hallway. The thick bars cross each other every six inches. I want to curl up, but it's too tight. It's been years, but I still remember what it feels like being stuffed inside a locker. Sometimes those days seem to be from another life, and sometimes they feel like yesterday. Sometimes I think time or fame has transformed me into a completely different person, and sometimes I feel like it's only my circumstances that have changed. Would freshman Mitch think and do the same things as me if he were here? My arm darts out and I grab a fistful of hair from a man in a black shirt. I yank it back toward me and bash his head against the bars repeatedly. My cage sinks a little as he lets go, but the others keep moving me forward. Gray Shirt grabs my wrist and Black Shirt pulls free, leaving behind some hair. He puts his hand against his temple, and red creeps out between his fingers. Head wounds bleed a lot. I knew that even before I started studying ways to kill people. If only I had more room to maneuver, I could have knocked him out.

The hand around my wrist doesn't let go when I pull my arm back in. I sink my teeth into it and clench my jaw tighter until I break through the skin. He's howling and trying to grab at my neck, but he only has the use of one hand and he has to reach through the bars. It's easy to block him. The others drop the cage and back away. They stand by watching. One runs back to the room we came from. I sink my teeth even deeper into my captive's hand as I set my jaw against the nausea building in the pit of my stomach and pressing painfully against my skull. I release him abruptly and spit his blood back into his face. I hiss and he stumbles backward, trying to cradle his hand without touching it. He should hold it over his head until he can bind it, but he just stares at it.

Now we are at an impasse. I can't escape. Nobody is within reach. Nobody dares come closer. Nobody makes eye contact. Even if I incapacitated all of them, I wouldn't be able to get out of this cage. It's not about running anymore. I'm proving something to myself. There's a voice inside me telling me I can't. I can't inflict real pain. I can't be a killer. I can't become the animal I have to be to win. I don't have the resolve to save myself. That voice is wrong. I fought Scott and I almost killed Kirstie. Surely that means I can become what I have to be. Those don't count, though. Scott was drunk and Kirstie let me beat her. I didn't attack Scott until he attacked me, and I didn't attack Kirstie until she told me to. When there was a real fight in the hovercraft, I didn't even hit anyone. Can I?

I can. I conjure up the sound of cracking ribs from the reaping. It still makes me feel sick, but it's empowering. I taste the blood mingling with my saliva. I hear whimpering from Black Shirt. I don't have to be afraid that I won't fight when the time comes. I just have to be afraid that I'll lose. I didn't escape the reaping. I didn't escape the hovercraft. I'm not going to escape this. The man who ran to the other room returns with a blanket and throws it over my cage. They pick me up again. Everything is dark now except for the patch of linoleum floor beneath my feet. It's as if I'm staying still and the ground is sliding backward. It changes to concrete, then steel. They set me down again, and I hear them stepping back before they pull away the blanket. Light shines from above and the floor beneath me slowly rises up to meet it. I hear chirping birds and buzzing insects. My head reaches ground level and I see dense foliage. My feet reach ground level and I see the rain forest.

My antics only served to delay me. Everyone else is here already. They've all had time to take in the scene. At least Avi was right about the setting. I spin my head around to see as much as possible. I don't know how long I have before our cages open. We're in a circle, arranged in the same order as on the flight. Scott has a bandage on his cheek. How long were we out? The trees are majestic, and the forest stretches out past the horizon. The air is saturated with moisture and gnats. Fortis nods at me and I nod back. As alliances go, this is very last-minute. He jerks his head in Huan's direction and she nods at me too. I return the gesture. Kirstie, Kevin, and Scott are looking on approvingly. They're already in on it. How do they look so confident?

I turn my eyes to the cornucopia. There's no structure, just a twelve foot high mound of weapons in the center of all of us. The base is just sticks, and above them is a layer of batons, then clubs. As it goes up, the weapons get progressively more dangerous. At the very top, I see guns. Cinna warned us that Steward was in a mood, but this is unprecedented. Still, our plan doesn't change. We're all going to run for the cornucopia as fast as possible and then hold our ground. It's dangerous, but we have strength in numbers and we stand a better chance than anyone else. After the initial struggle, it will be the safest place in the arena. We might not all make it through the first ten minutes, though.

Maybe I should hang back and let the others take the risk.

No, I need this alliance to work. Until I have to kill them, I'm going to support my team and depend on them. I shift my stance so I'll be ready to sprint. The weapons are just two hundred yards away. A booming voice talks about the symbolic meaning of the Games and the significance of this last event. There's too much echo and I can barely make out the words. I stare at the very top of the mountain of weapons. "Three," the voice booms. "Two." I take a deep breath and lean forward. "One!" The door falls off my cage. I run like I have never run before.


	21. Chapter 21

I don't look around to see if my team is running with me. I don't check for enemies. I focus on the ground beneath my feet. There's a layer of slippery mud, wet leaves, and moss. Saplings and ferns obscure burrows and dead branches. I catch a glimpse of a brightly colored snake through the leaves. It's directly in my path, but I don't change course or even adjust my stride. I step on it without slowing down. I can't tell if it bites me or if I'm just imagining it, but I keep running. It's not venomous. I studied as much as possible after Avi's warning, and I recognize it. I recognize a lot of the plants too, but for every one that's familiar, there are a dozen that are completely new. The ferns change to sticks and I stop short. I'm at the cornucopia. I'm face to face with Cassia. She swings a fist at my head and I trip backward to avoid it. I'm on the ground. She jumps forward and puts a foot on my chest to secure me as she leans sideways to grab a weapon from the mound. I roll over and throw her off balance. I curl into a ball and she kicks my back. Fortis is here. In a single motion, he leaps over me and rams into her with his shoulder. She falls back against the pile of weapons and cries out as blades pierce her shoulders. I spring to my feet and grab a knife. Fortis takes hold of her throat. Choking, she swings both arms out in spite of the pain and grabs a dagger in each hand. I step back two paces and let her drive them both into Fortis's spine. A cannon fires almost instantly to mark his death. He falls and crushes her deeper into the pile, but she pushes him off and begins to stand. I throw my knife into her chest.

I should finish her off. It would only take a second. Instead, I pull the knife out of her and grab another. Scott and Kirstie are by my side now, collecting weapons. Huan is watching me very closely. Maybe Scott and Kirstie didn't notice what I did, but she saw me betray Fortis. I could have saved him. He could have been useful. Eventually we would have had to attack each other, but I let him die before he had to. Why did I do that? It was an emotional decision, not a rational one. I didn't want to get to know him because I knew I would like him. I didn't want to use him because I already did like him. The very act of saving him would have created a bond between us. I betrayed him immediately instead of waiting until it would hurt more. I don't know if that means I'm soft or stone cold. I hold a knife out to Huan with the hilt forward as a gesture of peace. She accepts it.

Where's Cassia's partner, Ilene? I grab another knife. Where's Kevin? He's behind me, shouting, "Look out!" There's movement at the top of the mound. A gun shifts. The short barrel points downward. I see a finger squeezing the trigger and I hear a deafening bang. Ilene is firing blindly from behind the hill. The first bullet hits just centimeters from Fortis. Fortis's body. His corpse. He's dead because of me. Cassia is dead because I killed her. I'm about to die too if I don't move. Ilene stops firing for a moment and picks up another gun. Everyone is running away. She's going to take the hill single-handedly. The gun is pointed away from me for now. I wait for her to start firing again and I creep around the hill towards her.

Never bring a knife to a gun fight, they say. Scott sees what I'm doing, though, and starts making a commotion to distract her. She peeks her head over the top of the hill and aims directly at him. I'm not in position yet. If I throw a knife at her now, I might cut her, but I won't be able to kill her. She's going to shoot him. I won't have to be the one to take his life. I won't have be the one who takes his parents' child, his sisters' brother. I don't want them to lose him at all. I feel the balance of the knife in my hand, then pull my arm back and throw it. It grazes her fingers. Her gun turns to me. I throw my last knife and she ducks, then takes aim again. Scott is supposed to start running for his life right now, but he's frozen in place. Kevin and Kirstie aren't moving either. Huan is dangerously close to Ilene, standing below and behind her with only the knife I gave her. She only has one chance. Maybe she won't risk it. Even if she does, she's not going to do anything until I'm dead. "I have to ask you something," I spit out. I don't know what I'm going to ask, but I have to keep her focus for as long as possible before she kills me and starts shooting at the others. I wish they would run.

If I beg, she'll just shoot me. I have to do something completely unexpected if I want anything to change. With a deep breath, I smile and step forward. She looks confused for a moment, then decides she doesn't care about what I'm talking about as much as she cares about killing me. I have to get her attention fast. "Ilene, will you marry me?" It doesn't matter if these are my last words if it means she'll pause just one more second before pulling the trigger. I'm clinging to every heartbeat. I get down on one knee.

With her gun still trained on me, she peeks her head out a little further. "Aren't you... and even if... No!" She's in no particular hurry. Nobody is moving. Huan is silent.

"Ilene, we were meant to be together." I have to keep talking. She's confused, but she's still pointing the gun at me. It's trained on my heart now. "If you don't feel that way, though, I understand." I'm shaking. I sit on my knees and say very clearly, "I love you." I'm not talking to her anymore. I'm saying goodbye to everyone I care about. She gasps. Her head falls forward. Her hand goes limp. Huan steps up and pulls her knife from Ilene's neck. Before I catch my breath, she picks up a gun and points it straight at me. I freeze, but she doesn't pull the trigger. Why? She's not like Ilene. Ilene wasn't committed to the idea of killing anyone. For all her ruthlessness, she was ultimately far more human than I am. Huan, on the other hand, is already a killer. She certainly killed Ilene, she almost definitely killed the first guard on the hovercraft, and she probably killed any number of other guards, so why is she hesitating? Our eyes meet. She's not going to shoot.

If she wanted me dead, she would have let Ilene kill me instead of doing it herself. That way, she wouldn't make enemies of Kirstie, Kevin, and Scott. After seeing me let Fortis die, she shouldn't trust me enough to want me as an ally. Maybe she's giving me a second chance. That doesn't make sense. Maybe she just wanted to take advantage of the distraction I provided to reclaim the cornucopia. Closer. The cogs click into place. She was hoping I would die. She was hoping Ilene would pull the trigger with her last breath. She could have, but she didn't. Maybe she was never really going to do it at all. Now Huan is biding her time. She has a hook in me. She can tell the others what I did. I'm simply going to have to confess to it. She tosses guns to Scott, Kirstie, Kevin, and me. I catch mine and grip it with my finger at the trigger. Kevin lets it fall at his feet and steps back from it.

We regroup in the center. Everyone else has disappeared into the forest. They saw our plan and decided it was suicidal to come alone. We're safe now, for a little while. The others gather in the center, and I turn back to Cassia's body. I grab her arm and start to drag her away, but Kevin stops me with a hand on my shoulder. I shrink away instinctively, like I'm diseased. I'm dirty. I'm a killer. He bends at the knees and picks her up with one arm under her back and one supporting her legs. He sets her on the ground a hundred hundred feet away and stoops over to close her eyes before he returns. She'll be taken away in the night. Together, we bring Fortis to her side. They aren't enemies anymore.

Scott comes with Ilene's body. His bandage has peeled off and I see torn stitches on his cheek. He's falling apart at the seams. I don't know what he's thinking, but I know him, and I know something in him is about to break. I can try to comfort him, but anything I say will be tainted. He's just seen me become a murderer. Is he wondering when I'm going to kill him? He puts the body down. Is he wondering what he'll look like dead? Is he changing his mind about not wanting to win? Is he giving up?

"Help me," I say quietly. I don't need anything, but helping me might be the only thing that will help him. He puts his arm around me as we walk back to the mound.

I was wrong. I do need this.


	22. Chapter 22

I'm drained. My back hurts where Cassia kicked me. My arm is sore where the tracker is. No doubt it's watching my heartbeat, just waiting for it to stop. My leg has little fang marks in it. "Wake me up in fifteen minutes." I lie down in the mud and fall asleep immediately. They'll watch out for me. I the Games, that kind of trust is a priceless luxury.

When I wake, it's dark. Hot rain is pouring over a makeshift tent, a tarp held up with sticks, above me. Scott is sitting up with his arms wrapped around his knees and his head bent low to stay under the flimsy roof. The others are sound asleep in spite of the weather, but he's watching the forest and the mound of weapons. There's a dent in it, and under the swords, sticks, and knives, there are first aid kits and supplies, and even a bit of food. "Go to sleep, Scott. I'll take watch."

"I can't."

"You can, and you must. How long have you been up?" He shrugs. The moon is hidden and we don't even know what time the Games started.

Even though we haven't been in sync since before the reaping, it still feels strange not knowing what he's thinking. "What's on your mind?" He sighs. "Scott, you can tell me anything."

"You saved me. I was supposed to be helping you, not the other way around." He risked, practically forfeited, his life by distracting Ilene while I snuck up on her. He was expecting to die just to make sure I got the chance to kill her, but I didn't let him. I risked my life too. I'm no hero, though.

"I still want to win."

"So why did you do that?"

"It was too soon. I wasn't ready to let you go."

"Then get ready. Don't you dare let me outlive you, Mitch."

"I don't want you to die."

"And I don't want you to die. The only difference between us is that you don't want to die and I do."

"No! You don't want to win, but that doesn't mean you want to die."

"It's the same thing."

"It's not the same. I want to live, but I don't want you to die."

"You only get one. Promise me you won't do anything like that again."

Until the last moment, I thought my mind had been made up to let Scott die, but I got too close. "I let us be friends again. When I had to let you go, I couldn't. I'm not strong enough to love you and still let you die." I can care about him or not care about him. He can die or not die. That makes four possible outcomes: I care and he dies, I care and he lives, I stop caring and he dies, or I stop caring and he lives. I can't control whether he'll live or not. If he doesn't want to win, he's not going to. He's going to die, whether or not I die for him first. That leaves two possible outcomes. I care and he dies, or I hate him and he dies. Neither of those will work. How can I care about him and let him die? Even if there's nothing I can do to stop it, it will rip me to pieces. And how can I hate him? My plans are worthless.

I want to live. Those words don't have power over me anymore. They don't hold any answers. So what else do I want? When was the last time I was happy? I think of the party the night before the reaping. I remember smiling and laughing. I remember joking and flirting and hugging friends. I can't go back to that. I remember fame and accolades and adoring fans. That could never make me happy without my band. I remember singing. Music is soothing and beatiful, but it's a shallow escape. There's no depth or meaning in it, no resolution.

I remember my family. They won't stop loving me. They'll welcome me back with open arms. The thought makes me uneasy. Why? I play through it in my mind. I win. I go back to them. They embrace me. They make me warm food and they tell me to talk about everything when I'm ready. They help me work though it. They listen to everything without judging. They support me. Why does that bother me? Is it because I know I don't deserve it? Not quite, but close. I remember Scott telling me, "Don't lie to me again, Mitch. You don't have to." When he said, "Don't lie to me again," he didn't mean, "There's no point in lying to me, since I'll forgive you for anything anyway." He meant, "Don't lie to me; it hurts." He didn't ignore it or pretend it wasn't a problem. He acknowledged it, and because of that, it meant so much more when he said, "You don't have to." That was the last time I was happy. Why have I kept lying, then? I'm going to tell him the truth. I'm going to be brutally honest. It's going to make him hate me. Maybe then we can be enemies. Maybe then we can try to kill each other. If it doesn't work... No, it won't fail. The truth is harsh. He's made up his mind to support me no matter what I do, but I'm going to change it. I should have pushed him away a long time ago, for his sake as well as mine.

I start small. "I eavesdropped on your conversation with Cinna." He shrugs. He doesn't even care. I can do worse. "I betrayed Fortis." I betrayed Fortis right after he saved my life.

"I know. I understand." How can he understand? He's not just saying it to be nice, though. He means it. I could cry. Instead, I keep digging.

"Kirstie and I have an alliance. We've agreed to kill you."

"Okay." The apathy in his voice is chilling. I want to shake him until he realizes how precious his life is.

I sink my teeth in deeper. "At the interviews, when I pinned Kirstie down and almost killed her..." Her widening eyes flash through my mind again. "I wasn't acting, Scott." I force myself to keep speaking. "I was going to murder her right there."

"You're lying."

"No, Kirstie's lying, covering for me because of our alliance."

He stares at me. I'm holding my breath. After a while, he says, "If she forgave you, then so do I." Scott, stop.

"She's using me to keep her safe and help her kill you. She'll try to kill me if it's just the two of us. She lied to me about you. It's not forgiveness. It's just a mutual understanding. I tried to kill her. You shouted at me to stop, but I would have done it." I need to tell him the truth and I need him to hate me for it, partly so I can try to hate him back and partly because I can't stand the thought of him dying for me without knowing who I really am.

"You had her weapon. You didn't have to kill her."

"I wanted to."

"Shut up."

"I needed to. I'm still going to."

"Stop. Let me think." He's conflicted. It's working. I feel sick, but this is for the best. Gradually, his face settles, and he says, "I chose you, not Kirstie. Picking who I wanted to win was the hardest decision I ever had to make, but I'm sure."

I didn't want to do this. I didn't think he'd hold out this far. I'm going to have to cut deeper. "When Ilene aimed at you, I was going to let you die, but then I thought of your family." I have crossed every line now. I can't even imagine how guilty he feels about chosing not to go back to them. It's cruel just mentioning them.

Choking on his words, he says, "Mitch, I know what you're doing. Do you trust me?" I nod. What is he getting at? "Then stop. There's a better way."

"What do you mean?"

He just shakes his head and says, "It's going to be okay." He doesn't look like he's going to be okay, though.

"What's the matter?" Everything. There's something I don't know about, though.

"Please don't ask."

Why not? He looks miserable. He looks guilty. Even so, I trust him. "Okay." The night of the reaping, I told him I felt guilty and angry, and that it made me want to hurt people. I told him, "The only people I can hurt with my words are the ones I don't want to hurt." It was all an elaborate lie, but that much was true, and now it's exactly what I've done. "I'm sorry, Scott." I wanted to hurt him. I succeeded, but he still isn't letting go. I tried everything to shake him and I failed. I trace a circle around my ankle. I have to stop fighting him. "I'm sorry. Go to sleep." I push his chest and he lies down. "Sweet dreams."

The rain thins out and the moon peeks through the clouds. Dawn is a few hours away. There is no trace of it on the horizon. Even in the deepest darkness, though, the forest is alive. The sound is different from before, but beautiful. "I want to live" suddenly takes new meaning. I don't just want to survive. I don't just want to win. I want to be alive right now, even in the darkest part of the night, when there is no hope on the horizon. I might not make it to the end of the Games, but I want to start living again before they're over. I thought Avi was myopic when he said, "Now is not the time to push your friends away," but he was right. He saw further than I did.


	23. Chapter 23

The moon is gone and sunrise has almost come. The hum of insects persists, but the creatures fall silent. A hovercraft appears and extends a metal claw to scoop up Ilene, Cassia, and Fortis like prizes. I throw a rock at it on it's way out. I don't want to waste a real weapon.

I've kept myself busy since I took watch. I started by pulling gauze from a metal first aid box, twisting it into rope, and covering it mud. I tied one end to a stick and one to the hilt of a broadsword. I emptied the rest of the box, filled it with rocks, and propped it on the stick. I dug a hole just the right size to bury the sword comfortably, but instead of interring it, I put a stone in the middle of the hole and balanced the sword atop it. I emptied the ammunition from the remaining guns and stacked them on one end of the sword, then counterbalanced them perfectly with rocks. When someone takes a gun, the sword will tip, the gauze will pull the stick out, and the box will fall and alert us. I hide the guns sloppily under more leaves to make it look less suspicious. I bury the ammunition. The place is marked only by a rock, but I know exactly how many paces it is from the nearest tree.

I'm now sitting under the new shelter I built after finishing my first undertaking. The top is high enough that Scott will be able to sit comfortably inside. The roof is made of two tarps that overlap slightly at the apex. There are sleeping bags under the floor for padding, and I've spread another tarp over them. Even at night, it's too hot for any kind of blankets, but I've added a sheet over the floor to make it quieter. There's no shortage of tarps, blankets, weapons, and first aid kits, and water is naturally abundant here. The main thing we're missing is food. There isn't enough here to last the five of us more than a day or two, and we should save it. I'm cutting rough notches into sticks that Kirstie will be able to use when she makes traps. We'll need a lot to feed all of us.

Kevin rises just as the sun begins to show. He gets up quietly to let the others sleep, but he still gives me a heart attack. There's noise everywhere, and I'm constantly jumping at rustling leaves and sounds that might just be in my head. "This is impressive, Mitch!" He sits by me in the tent and joins me in carving.

One of us is going to die, yet he's complimenting my tent making skills and working beside me. For the past three months, every time a tribute says anything to me, I tell myself, "One or both of us will be dead soon." I have to stop thinking this way. It's how things are, and I have to get over it. "Thanks, Kevin." We work in silence for a while. A cannon fires. Four down, one gone, eighteen to go. The rest of the team wakes, but Kevin tells them to go back to sleep. Just a few minutes later, another cannon fires. Seventeen to go. This time, Huan gets up and walks our way.

"I'm going to hunt."

"We'll come with you," Kevin says. "It'll be safer." No, Kevin. What would be safer is letting Huan go get us food by herself. Safer for us, anyway. And what would be most safe is killing Huan the moment she turns her back. She may yet be useful, though. We do need to hunt and explore, and it makes sense to go in groups.

We gather weapons and then wake Scott and Kirstie. "Don't touch the guns. I've set an alarm on them. We're going hunting. We'll come back soon."

"How soon?" Scott asks. "What am I supposed to do if a cannon fires while you're gone? I want to come with you."

"You two have to guard the supplies," Huan says. "We promise not to die."

Scott looks at me. "I promise," I say with a nod. He looks relieved, as if he thinks I actually have the power to keep that promise. We set out into the forest.

Kevin leads us downhill in hopes of finding a stream. I like fish. I like pretty much anything. After an hour or so, though, we don't see any bodies of water bigger than puddles, and we haven't seen any mammals. We've seen claw marks, though, massive scars in the sides of trees from creatures I do not want to meet. I'm nervous, and I'm starting to feel very hungry. That's the name of the game, though. Ha. Literally.

I'm about to propose we sit for a while when Huan stops in her tracks. She puts her finger over her lips. I listen. I hear Julius, but I can't make out the words. Janice replies angrily. Huan holds her knife up and steps forward quickly and quietly. I follow. Soon the twins are in sight. They've found a stream, and now they're arguing about how to make a hook. "I've done this a hundred times," Janice says, "and you haven't even read about it. Give it here!" Huan points at herself and then at Julius, then at me and Janice. She looks back at Kevin. He seems queasy. For all his preparation, he's not a killer. Not yet. She points at a log and he sits down. We step as close as we dare. They're barely within range. They don't see us, but they will if they look up. We hold up our knives, ready to throw. Huan counts down with her fingers. Three, two, one, zero. We release at the same time. I miss by a few inches. Janice cries out as my knife pierces the soft flesh just under her left shoulder.

Huan's knife flies past Julius's arm and hits the ground. Without even looking back at his sister, he runs. He's going at top speed, but I'm faster, and I'm running downhill. I overtake him before he goes even twenty feet. I tackle him to the ground. The back of the neck is the cleanest kill, but he rolls face-up before I can pin him down. His throat is smooth, almost hairless. He's just a boy. I stab the side of his neck and drag my knife all the way across. I cut deep and long. He'll die quickly. Blood gushes from his severed arteries, less with every heartbeat. He chokes, and air bubbles up from his windpipe through the pool of blood in the laceration. My throat constricts and feel nauseous. No amount of conditioning could have prepared me for this. I'm not sure if I'm going to throw up or pass out first. I push myself aside weakly so I won't drown in his blood when I fall. That would be far too poetic. A cannon fires. "Look out!" cries Huan. She's running away. I spin my head around as I collapse.

Janice has pulled my knife from her underarm. Her wound could be treated in a hospital, but here in the arena, it will kill her eventually. She's swaying on her knees and her face is contorted in pain. She's gripping the knife hilt solidly in her right hand and looking at me, screaming at me. "You killed him!" I killed her brother. This is my fault. She takes aim. She can't miss at this range. The last of my vision blacks out. I'm helpless. At least I won't feel it. I promised Scott I wouldn't die, but everybody dies. Huan won't save me. That's my fault too. There's nothing I can do. I feel only panic. There are so many loose ends, so many things I wanted to know and do. I wish I could die in peace. I wish I could die with a clean conscience. I wish I could see my family again. I wish I could tell Kevin this isn't his fault. I wish I could be reconciled with Avi. I wish I could tell Kirstie to win for me. I wish I could tell Scott how important he is. I find the strength to reach out and grab hold of my ankle. Maybe he'll see it. Maybe he'll understand. In my final moments, I'm thinking of him. I'm remembering how he never let go of me. I'm not afraid anymore.

I feel my consciousness slipping away, and then I feel nothing.


	24. Chapter 24

I'm pacing and running my hands through my hair. "They'll be fine, Scott." Kirstie's words might be more reassuring if Mitch hadn't just told me what a liar she is. He's a liar too, though. Maybe he was even lying about Kirstie lying. I don't know why he would, but he's twisted like that. He fools me every time. He blends honesty and deceit together like oil paints and makes the most vivid landscapes. They're shocking and grotesque, but somehow they also seem pure and beautiful, more realistic than reality.

I haven't been fully honest with him either. I haven't let on how much it hurts. I can't pretend I'm unaffected, but he has no idea what kind of torment this is: my best friend lying to me, my best friend pushing me away, my best friend grinding salt into my wounds, my best friend tearing at our relationship. My best friend broken and hurting. My best friend alone. My my best friend turning into my enemy.

Even when he tells me he's lying, he can't stop manipulating me, and I can't keep up. I can't tell what he wants, what he's thinking, or how he's feeling. After last night, I've given up on trying. He's full of contradictions. He told me he wants to kill me, but he told me he risked his life because of my family. He told me he's a traitor, but he told me he can't love me and still let me die. Did he love Kirstie when he tried to kill her? After last night, I finally understand what I have to do to him. My stomach turns just thinking about it. I feel guilty for even entertaining the idea in the first place, but he's not the Mitch I used to know. Seeing what he's become, I know it's better this way. He may think he wants to win, but I'm not going to let him live his whole life feeling guilty over me. I don't want to betray him, and I'm going to put it off as long as I can, but this is the only way.

There's a hateful part of me that hopes he doesn't come back so I don't have to do it. Is this how he thinks all the time? Is this why he's so messed up? I do want him back, even if it means I'll have to turn on him later. In spite of everything, I want him back badly. I shouldn't have let them go.

Partly to distract myself and partly because I can't know if I'll ever get another chance, I rummage through the supplies for writing materials. I find a fat instruction booklet inside a first aid kit to use as paper, and iodine disinfectant for ink. I sharpen a small stick to a point and score a thin channel down the side hold the fluid better. The paper soaks it up and turns it from transparent yellow to dark brown. Kirstie is leaving me space, but I hunch over to hide it from from any watching cameras. I've already written to my family, but there's one more thing I have to try to explain in the margins and between the CPR diagrams. It's hard to put into words what I'm going to do and why. They won't understand. An hour goes by, and with every sentence, I feel more and more worried that this letter won't be necessary, that Mitch won't come back.

A cannon fires. My heart stops. It's not Mitch. It can't be Mitch. Please, please, please don't let it be Mitch. "It isn't him. It isn't him. It isn't him," I repeat under my breath. I don't look at Kirstie. She'll probably be happy if he dies. He promised he wouldn't die. It's not him. It isn't him. Mitch is alive. He's okay. He's coming back. I don't want it to happen like this. I don't want somebody else to kill my Mitch.

I sign my letter and slide the booklet under my shirt against my chest. If they find it on my body, I hope they'll send it to the right place. Another cannon fires. I can't hold back my tears any longer. I stab my stylus into the ground and start carving up the earth with a knife. Kirstie comes and wraps her arms around me. She's crying too. "They're coming back, Scott. He promised."

I shake my head. "He's a liar." She doesn't contradict me. She knows it's true. She's even lied for him. I sob and I curse him and I scar the ground, but I don't destroy the letter. I don't give up hope, if it can be called that, until Huan returns. She's alone.

How. Dare. She. "We ran into Janice and Julius. Mitch killed Julius, but then he passed out or something." Just like at the arena. He was never meant to be a killer. "I'm sorry. Janice killed him. I escaped. I don't even know where Kevin is. He must have stayed hidden until Janice left." She abandoned Kevin. She ran away while Mitch was dying. I grab an axe and I close the distance between us in seconds. "He's not who you think he was. He betrayed us. He let Fortis die." She's stepping backward. I would kill Fortis and his entire family to have Mitch back even for a day.

"Scott, no!" Kirstie thinks we need Huan, but I know she wants her dead as much as I do. How dare she come back here! Does she think we're like her? Does she think we only care about staying alive? She sees my grip on the axe and she runs, pulling out her knife as she goes. "Scott!" Kirstie's voice cracks with emotion. Suddenly it hits me. Mitch is dead. I drop the axe. I fall to my knees.

This hurts worse than anything he ever said or did to me. We grew up together. We told each other everything. We watched out for each other. He is too incredible to die, too funny, clever, talented, kind, and wonderful. He was too wonderful. Now he's nothing but an exceptionally beautiful dead body. It's not fair. He didn't have to die. He didn't have to be chosen in the reaping. The Games didn't have to happen at all. Kirstie is weeping. The Trio is gone. I hug her and we cry on each other's shoulders. I'd rather be crying on Mitch's shoulder. I squeeze her tighter. Now one of us has to win. One of us has to live to remember Mitch.

I tried so hard to hold onto him, but he wouldn't let me. He hurt me again and again. Maybe I lost him a long time ago. The real Mitch didn't die in the Games, he died at the reaping.

No, that's not true. He was still Mitch when he sang to the people of the districts. He was still Mitch when he sang to the tributes. He was still Mitch when he poured out my alcohol and fought me. He was still Mitch when he told me he wanted to win. He was still Mitch when he tried to kill Kirstie. He was still Mitch when he risked his life to save me. Even when he tried to push me away, he was still Mitch. He cared about me too much to let me in. He told himself he was a monster. He even tried to become a monster, but, under everything, he was still always Mitch. He's not Mitch anymore. Mitch is gone.

It doesn't feel like a part of me is missing without him. It feels like all of me is missing. Through my tears, I see Kevin approaching from a distance. He's carrying Mitch's body piggyback, leaning forward so it doesn't fall off. Mitch's arms are arranged over Kevin's shoulders so his delicate wrists cross. His hands are caked in blood. Kevin is treading heavily and crying silently. His load is light, but he looks like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Mitch really is dead. I thought I was in anguish before, but now my misery rips at my mind a hundred times more painfully. I turn away. It's good that he brought the body back, but I don't want to see it. It isn't him. "I promise," was the last thing he ever said to me. I want to remember his bright eyes looking into mine, not dead eyes looking at nothing at all. It's not fair. The moment I let him go, he's gone forever. I'm going to miss him until the day I die.

I bury my head in my arms. "It's not your fault. Truly, it's not your fault." I can't move. I can't look up. I can't even breathe. "I know that's not what you want to hear right now, but it's so important for you to understand. I wish you would believe me. It was the only way. Are you sure you won't put me down? I really do feel a lot better now, Kevin."


	25. Chapter 25

I see light through my eyelids and I hear bird calls. Either I'm dead, or I've regained consciousness too soon and I'm about to be. I hear footsteps approaching. She's coming to kill me up close. How is she even standing? I open my eyes just a sliver. My knife is right in front of my face, but if I reach for it, she'll see I'm awake. I hold still. Maybe, just maybe, I can catch her by surprise. I have to kill her instantly this time. She's already halfway here. I grab the knife, sit up, and spin around all at once. I'm already swinging it. "No!" he shouts. He. Kevin. The knife is already leaving my hand. I give it just a little extra push and a little extra spin as it escapes my fingertips. It misses him by inches. He runs to my side.

"Don't get up, Mitch. Lie down, close your eyes, and elevate your legs." He slides a fallen branch under my feet. "You'll feel better in just a minute, but you shouldn't stand yet. Give it a quarter hour." His voice is shaking and he's breathing too fast. I did almost kill him. What happened while I was out, though?

"What's the matter?"

"You fainted." I gathered. He's sidestepping the question. "It was the same at the reaping. I should have realized it would be a problem."

"Kevin, what happened?"

"Your blood pressure dropped abruptly. It's called vasovagal syncope, and for you, it's triggered by seeing blood." That's not what I was asking about. He isn't answering me. I guess that's an answer in itself. "It's not uncommon. You can get over it with conditioning. You seem to have some tolerance, but this was just too much for you."

I'll try an easier question. "How long was I out?"

"Seconds."

"Where's Huan?"

"She ran back the way we came."

"Where's Janice?"

He's silent. Just as I decide he's not going to answer, he replies softly, "I don't know." He knows where her body is, but he doesn't know where she is. I open my eyes and look in her direction. My knife is still locked in her hand. There are two arrows, side by side, almost touching, embedded in her chest, and one more protruding from her head. I can't tell from this angle, but it's probably in her eye. Huan can't shoot like that. Kevin, at close range, can. He's covering his face with his hands. I reach out to comfort him, but I stop when I see my own bloodstained hand. I can wash it all I want, but it will always be the hand that took Julius's life.

"Are you okay, Kevin?" He sighs deeply and goes to Janice. He delicately disentangles the knife from her fingers and removes the arrows from her chest. His whole body is shaking, but he doesn't even flinch when he pulls the arrow from her eye. He's deeply affected, but it's not the blood that bothers him. He wasn't ready to kill. He came this far without even preparing himself for the idea of it. If he wasn't prepared to kill, it's because didn't intend to kill. If he didn't intend to kill, he intended to die. He was planning to die rather than become a murderer. He was more willing to be killed than to kill, but he still did it. He shot Janice not once, but three times, for me.

He gathers the weapons and drops them in the shallowest part of a pool at a bend in the stream. It's where Janice was going to fish. He stares at his reflection as the water turns bright red and fades again. It makes sense to wash the weapons and take them back instead of leaving them to be taken with the bodies or found by other tributes, but I suppose it's mostly an excuse for him to step away from my questions and collect himself. Suddenly he pulls an arrow from his quiver, and, holding it in his fist, plunges it into the water. When he lifts it out, there's a fish on the end. Sharp teeth, red eyes, ugly face: piranha. It came for the blood. He stabs another, but leaves the arrow in the water a little longer. When he pulls it up, there are two piranhas, one on the arrow and one biting the first. Before long he has a dozen. He's shaking and crying the whole time.

Huan brought a bag, but she's gone. Kevin returns, rolls Julius's body over, and cuts his shirt all the way down the back. He pulls it off and takes it back to wrap up the fish. How can he be so horrified by killing, yet so unmoved by dead bodies? He must see them differently from the way I do. He knows how they work and what's inside. Maybe he's even dissected a few cadavers. He's always valued mind and soul over body. Maybe that's why he can pull a shirt off a corpse and put food in it. Maybe that's why he's catching fish baited with the blood of our enemies. He uses arrows to pull the weapons from the water and he throws them atop the dead fish. He ties the shirt together so that the sleeves form a handle that he can hang over one shoulder. When he returns, he stoops down and says, "Climb on my back. I'm taking you home." Home? Home is wherever Scott and Kirstie are, I guess, even in the arena. He lifts me effortlessly and I cross my hands in front of him so I don't stain his clothes.

"Do you want to wash those?"

"In piranha-infested waters? No thank you." Why am I acting like this? I don't have to be cheeky. I don't have to hide behind a mask. The truth is that the blood on my hands is a part of me, and washing them won't make it go away. The mask is a part of me too, though, a very important part that I haven't seen in a while. It's my personality. I thought it was gone.

Kevin seems to know exactly where he's headed. I wasn't even watching the path as I walked down it, but he knows how to get back. We came downhill to get here, and now we're going back up. He trained to climb uphill with a heavy load. He trained to shoot game, light fires, and gather plants. He was prepared for almost everything, but he wasn't expecting to have to kill anyone. I'm glad he did, even if he isn't. It doesn't seem tactful to thank him just yet, though. "How are you feeling? Do you want to talk about it?"

"I killed her. I'm so ashamed."

"No, Kevin. I killed her. She wouldn't have lasted long. She was already too weak to walk when you saved me. You made it quick and painless."

"I shot her three times."

"You stopped her from killing anyone before she died. You stopped her from killing me."

"It was selfish."

"Wait, what?"

"It was your life or hers. You're important to me, but she was important to someone else. Who am I to decide?"

"Most people would call that loyalty, not selfishness. And it wasn't my life or hers. It was my life or neither."

"She might have survived."

"Only if the Games ended quickly, and they won't end until there's a winner, and there's no way it would have been her."

"Even if she was going to die eventually, that doesn't make it okay to kill her. Everybody dies eventually, but murder is still wrong."

"We're only a day in and I've killed four people already." Between now and the last time I ate a meal, I've become a serial killer. "I put a knife through Cassia's heart only yesterday. I cut through Julius's neck not half an hour ago, and I fatally wounded Janice. I let Fortis die. I know it's wrong. I know it's selfish. I'm going to feel guilty my whole life, short though it may yet be. But do you know who I'll lose the most sleep over? Fortis. He was on my team and I let Cassia kill him. If you had let Janice kill me, would that have been the right thing to do?"

"There was no right thing to do."

"Exactly."

"And that means I did the wrong thing." He set me up. This is what I get for arguing with someone smarter and better-educated than me. For every point I can make, there's a counterpoint, and he can find it. I don't want him to feel bad, but maybe he just needs some time to work it out. I drop the subject. Occasionally I tell him he can put me down, but he always refuses. Fine. Whatever. He has an unnecessary burden on his shoulders, but it isn't me. Eventually I can't keep my mouth shut any longer. I can't stand for him to feel so guilty when I'm a hundred times more culpable.

"Kevin, there is literal blood on my hands. Look at them. You aren't like that. You're clean. You're clean in every sense of the word." He shakes his head and says nothing. "It's like you're from another planet!" He nods. It isn't the first time I've felt like we were from different worlds. Maybe he agrees. I shut my eyes and plant my forehead on his shoulder, gathering my thoughts. "It's not your fault. Truly, it's not your fault. I know that's not what you want to hear right now, but it's so important for you to understand. I wish you would believe me. It was the only way." He just keeps walking. "Are you sure you won't put me down? I really do feel a lot better now, Kevin."

"We're here." I look up. Kirstie is running toward us. Scott is further back. I squint my slightly less than perfectly functional eyes at him. His mouth is wide open. His eyes are red. What happened? Kirstie seems fine. Scott doesn't seem hurt. Did something happen to Huan? I don't see her, but I don't think Scott would be so upset about... oh.


	26. Chapter 26

"You're alive!" Kirstie kisses my cheek three times and Kevin finally releases me. "Huan told us you were dead! Are you hurt?" I know Kirstie is still going to try to take my life, but it warms my heart to see how glad she is I'm back. I wish I knew how she can feel emotions so sincerely without giving in to them.

"I'm alive. I passed out, but I'm not hurt." There's a lot more I could say, but that's up to Kevin. I leave them and go to Scott. I feel exhausted just looking at him. I need a good, solid block of time alone to sit down and process everything, from being a killer to almost dying. I've been bottling it all up. Kevin's guilt complex needed attention first, and now Scott needs me. He's frozen in place. I stand in front of him, but he doesn't rise. "I'm back."

He holds very still. I'm not sure what to say. After a full minute, he slowly reaches out a wavering finger and touches my leg. He bursts into tears. "You're real!"

"I'm real." He stands and embraces me. He's bawling like a child. He steps back for a moment and squeezes my hands in his. Dry blood crackles and flakes in his grip. "Did you miss me?" He nods with a sob and a snuffle. He's been crying long enough. I know I'll regret this, but I free my hands, I take a deep breath, and I dive my fingers into his ribs. I tickle him mercilessly. He doubles over and steps back quickly, then launches his counter-attack. I'm writhing on the ground, laughing so hard I'm crying and gasping for breath. I scream "Stop!" whenever I can muster enough air. If there are any tributes within half a mile, they probably think I'm being cruelly tortured, and they are right. Kirstie joins in the attack. I'm dying. "Kirstie, you traitor!" Maybe it's a little flippant to allude to our alliance right now, but I can't breathe. Suddenly her face goes blank. She's thinking. I don't like the way her expression is changing.

"Traitor?" Her voice is low and menacing. Her nostrils are flared and her face is almost touching mine. Scott moves back, confused. "You let Fortis die." I cared so much about what Scott would think that I forgot to consider how Kirstie would react. Did he tell her? Did Huan? "Do you want us all to be killed?"

Scott comes to my defense. "Take it easy, Kirstie. Of course he doesn't. He just couldn't... It wasn't... I don't know how to put it. It would have been cruel, you know? To save him only to kill him later." So he really does understand. "To use him and then throw him away." Kirstie winces at that. She shuts her eyes and her chin quivers. She clenches her jaw and moves from remorse to pain and back to anger. She's biting her lip and growing more frustrated every second. Something's upsetting her, and she can't talk about it in front of Scott. Maybe she can't tell me either. I can't handle this right now. Scott speaks again. "Where's Kevin?" He's nowhere to be seen. We call him and he doesn't answer. What has he done?

The ground where he was last standing has a message. "BRB," it says. I hope so. Then there's a picture, a loop over a pointy scribble over an "X." An arrow points to the "X." The loop, I think, is a fish. That means the pointy scribble is a fire and the "X" is wood. He's gone to get supplies to cook the fish. He shouldn't have left alone.

"We can follow his tracks," Scott says, pointing at the mud.

"There are only three of us," Kirstie replies. "No one should go after him alone, and we need at least two of us here. Huan might come back. Scott scared her away, Mitch. He just about chopped her head off when she said you died." Kirstie seems to have swallowed whatever breakdown she was in the middle of. I'm definitely going to have to get back to that, though. It seemed serious, and I don't think it bodes well for me. "Why did she say that, anyway?"

I was going to let Kevin tell them, but he's gone, and I'm worried about him. He's taking a stupid risk because of what happened today. "I was going to die, but Kevin saved me, and now he's guilt tripping himself over it big time. I'm concerned."

"Woah, slow down," Scott says. "From the top, Mitch. Everything."

"I killed Julius. There was so much blood. I was passing out. Janice had my knife, and she was about to kill me. Huan was running away. When I came to, Janice was dead. Kevin shot her. He saved my life, but he is grade A not okay with being a murderer, even under the circumstances. I had already fatally wounded her by then. He saved me." The last sentence, "We have to find him," whithers in my throat and never makes it past my lips. Kirstie is right. We have to stay here. I hope he really is coming back soon. I have my doubts, though. First of all, finding firewood in a rain forest is going to take forever. He'll have to carve it out of dead trees, and even then it will be a little damp. Second, he isn't stable right now. He probably wants to be alone. If someone attacks him, will he even defend himself?

Before we can discuss the issue, we hear a loud crash from behind us. We spin around. Huan is holding a gun in each hand. What is she thinking? Didn't she hear me say I emptied them? No, I never said that. I only said I set an alarm. How stupid does she think I am? I look at Scott and Kirstie, but they aren't carrying any weapons. They're frozen. They think the guns are loaded too. "Wait!" I shout. As soon as she realizes her mistake, she'll start taking knives from the cornucopia. Why isn't she trying to shoot already? Maybe she's shocked to see me alive. Maybe she thinks it means there's a chance to repair our alliance. She needs it more than we do. "It was a misunderstanding," I say. "I'm alive. Scott's not going to kill you." She's willing to listen. We're the strongest team, and she can't hold this position alone after the food runs out. "Do not move an inch," I mutter to Scott and Kirstie. "I'm safe as long as you're still." I raise my hands and call out, "We know how to get food." I walk evenly to the shirt full of fish. "Look. There are twelve. Kevin caught enough for you. I keep my head low and I don't make eye contact. I'm trying not to look threatening. I pull out a fish with my right hand and shake it by its tail. If waving a piranha in the air isn't enough of a distraction, I don't know what is. She doesn't notice my dominant hand pulling a knife from the bundle. "No harm, no foul, right? We can still be a team. You could kill us, but you need us. We can work together. We can show you how to get food." I toss the fish underhand so it lands halfway between us. She takes a step toward it. I raise my knife. Scott shouts. Huan pulls a trigger. I throw the knife. She dodges. She pulls the other trigger, then throws the guns at the ground and grabs two more. I take the second knife and run toward her. She tries to shoot me again, then throws the guns at me. The first falls short. The second flies by my head a little too close for comfort. She's running toward the cornucopia now. I raise my knife. She's only ten feet away.

She stops, puts her hands in the air, and drops to her knees. "No! Please, no! Please! I have to say goodbye." I walk up behind her and position my blade between the vertebrae at her nape. Gladiators used to kill each other like this, with a quick, almost painless cut through the spinal cord. They didn't teach us much about history, but they did tell us about the gladiators. Panem et circenses, bread and games, were the Roman Empire's simple instruments of peace. They fed people, and they entertained them with colosseums and gladiator fights. We were told that the Capitol's strategy was the same, that it fed the districts and entertained them with the Hunger Games. That was never true. We only ever fed and entertained ourselves. This was never about peace. People just love to see other people fight. It's sick, and I don't want to be a part of it. I don't have a choice. I have to kill her. No, I don't. Kevin wouldn't.

"Okay." These will be her last words, and they will haunt me. I'm not going to let her live.

"Thank you," she whispers. Her back straightens and her hands fall. There are goosebumps on her neck. For a moment, I think she's going to cry, but she takes control of her breathing and begins to speak. "Momma, I'm sorry I couldn't stay longer. I love you." Her voice is deep and raw. "Nicolas, I miss you. You are such an inspiration. I love you." The list goes on. She says heartfelt goodbyes to Cara, Marcus, Eloise, Erin, Amanda, Crixus, and Ritha. Scott comes behind me and rests a steady hand on my shoulder. Huan's last farewell comes out very quietly. "Goodbye, Mitch." She holds her breath. I can't move my hand. I shouldn't keep her in this kind of suspense, but I can't kill her. Scott steadies my wrist with one hand and takes the knife with the other. He pushes me back softly. He closes his eyes. He's summoning rage from somewhere, and I see it building on his face. He grips the knife tighter and, without warning, drives it into her spine. A cannon fires. He opens his eyes. The hatred is gone, and now he's only sad.


	27. Chapter 27

I watch as Scott carries Huan's body away. He's taking her to the same place where we left Ilene, Fortis, and Cassia yesterday. "Goodbye, Haun," I answer under my breath. Her face turns away from me as he rests her body on the ground. I blink, and now I don't see Huan at all. I see Kirstie. I see Scott standing over the body of my friend, not my enemy. No, Kirstie is my enemy too. We've been set against each other. Now she's angry, and I don't understand why. Meanwhile, Kevin is distressed and missing and alone, and Scott... Scott has just sacrificed a piece of his soul for me.

Whatever the others are going through, they're going to have to deal with it without me. I'm in no state to help anyone. My mind is tormenting me with images of dying tributes. I can't find Kevin, and if he comes back alive, I don't know what I can do for him, but he's still bouncing uselessly through my thoughts alongside the corpses. I'll never find a way to repay Scott, but he's cluttering my head as well. Maybe I can figure out what's plaguing Kirstie, but I'm not sure I want to know. I suspect it will only make me feel worse. I lie down in the tent and sing quiet nursery rhymes to myself to block out my thoughts.

"Where's Mitch?" demands Kevin's voice. He's out of breath. He's back!

"He's fine," says Kirstie. "It was Huan." He must have returned because of the cannon. He's safe. He's better, too. His brow is relaxed, he's done crying, and his shoulders are a little straighter. He's still troubled and sad, but not guilty or crushed anymore. Somehow, he's found a kind of peace that none of my arguments and rationalizations could give him. It's as if someone has taken his burden away, the same way Scott lifted mine when he forgave me.

He's gathered some wood, and he sets to work building a fire with Kirstie. She's explaining everything that happened while he was gone. They work some kind of miracle and coax flames into existence. The four of us make a circle around the fire and cook our fish thoroughly, burning the outsides rather than letting anything go underdone. They've been out for well over an hour, and they already smelled bad when he caught them. Now they reek, but the smoke helps mask the odor, and, if I hold my nose, they're palatable. We each take three. Scott clearly hates the the flavor, but this is no time to be a picky eater.

When the meal is over, we stare at the dying embers silently until Kevin says, "I'm proud of you, Scott." Scott looks confused, and he's shaking his head. "You went a whole day without eating, and you didn't turn into a diva." This gets a chuckle out of all of us, even now.

"It was only a matter of time," Scott laughs. His smile falls away. "I was distracted."

"You didn't have to do that for me, Scott." He didn't have to kill Huan. I would have found the courage eventually. I look him in the eyes. He didn't have to, but I am so, so grateful. "I was already a killer."

"You're more than that."

"So are you, Scott."

"I didn't want you to have to live with it." I hear a snap. The arrow Kirstie used to hold her fish over the fire is in two pieces now. He shouldn't have said that in front of her. She told me Scott was lying to her, playing us. Now that Scott's just made it clear in front of both of us that he's expecting me to live, I can't pretend anymore that I don't know she's lying. He wouldn't have said that if he really were lying to Kirstie, as she claimed. I need her to think I'm only pretending to trust Scott because she needs to think I'm actually depending on her. If I'm depending on her, I can't kill her, so she won't try to kill me. If not, I'm in danger. I'm still wrapping my head around the lies, trying to think how I would act if I still believed Kirstie, when she speaks.

"It's my fault you're here." What is she doing? Why is she confessing now? "It wasn't Avi." She's peeling splinters from the arrow shaft and looking down.

"What are you talking about?" Kevin asks softly.

"Avi didn't abandon you. I did. He wanted to take you with him, but I forced him to leave alone."

"No." Scott is rising to his feet. Kirstie doesn't move.

"I betrayed you. You could be free right now, but I was selfish. I wanted to live, so I sacrificed you. I brought you here. I let you kill for me." She drops the pieces of her arrow to the ground. "I decided I would let you die for me." She looks at Scott and Kevin. "I made sure you didn't escape. I've killed you." She turns to me. "I betrayed you too. I took Scott away. I destroyed your most important friendship when you needed it the more than ever."

"What are you saying?" Scott demands.

"It's okay, Scott," I say calmly. "Sit down."

"It is not okay. Kirstie, how could you do this to us?" She wraps her arms around herself and doesn't look up. I stand.

"A word, Scott?"

"Now?"

"Right now." I pull him away by the elbow. "Listen," I say urgently. "You have every right to be angry with Kirstie for what she's done," I glance back at them. Kevin is staring at Kirstie and Kirstie is transforming into a turtle. "But you don't understand what's happening. Kirstie is no worse than I am. She wants to live just as much as I do, but she's better at following through with it. I let my emotions get the better of me. I told you the truth. I let Fortis die for sentiment. I risked my life for you after I told myself I would kill you. I hesitated to take Huan's life. Kirstie wouldn't have done any of that. She's in control of herself. The fact that she's confessing right now can only mean one thing. Do you understand?" He doesn't. "She's given up hope, Scott. She's doesn't think she can win anymore. She wants to tell us the truth before she dies. So before you shout at her, try to imagine what it's like to be her right now. If she's not going to live, then she's sacrificed her friends for nothing. She doesn't need any help from you to feel wretched."

"She sacrificed me! And Kevin! And she blamed it all on Avi! You were there. You heard the way she lied to us."

"Scott, why did you forgive me? Kirstie and I are the same." Did he really forgive me? He did. I doubted him once, and I won't again. He really does want me to live. Maybe that's why he's mad at Kirstie. Only one of us can win.

"I forgave you because I couldn't help it. You aren't the same. You said it yourself. She's ruthless. You try to be, but you never succeed."

"You wouldn't say that if you were there when I killed Julius. Scott, don't tell me you're on my side because you think I'm a good person." He looks away and his hand goes to his chest. He's wearing a thin waterproof jacket, but I see the outline of something rectangular held snugly between his shirt and his body. "You have to have realized by now that I'm not."

"I want you to live," he says, still looking away.

"I know, Scott, and I know you don't understand why I want to live, so you can't understand why Kirstie does either, but please try understand what she's going through. It's cost her so much to try to survive. Scott, I knew all along. I figured it out the night of the interviews. Until today, until right now, she thought I needed her. I let her believe there was some hope. Take pity on her." He nods with his eyes on the ground and walks back to the others.

Kirstie cries when I tell her I knew, and I hug her. Eventually, Kevin makes up his mind and joins me in comforting her. Scott keeps his mouth shut. He's making me nervous. I think he's making her nervous too. She can't trust any of us now. Once most of the other tributes are dead, she's going to leave.

We're all hungry again by nightfall. Grubs are in plentiful supply, and I'm content, but the others aren't as adventurous as I am when it comes to food. Kevin is first to change his mind and try them. Scott and Kirstie will give in tomorrow. I lie down in the tent and close my eyes, but it makes no difference. Clouds cover the moon and stars, and I see no more with my eyes open than closed. Just as I'm beginning to drift off, Kirstie calls me awake. The faces of the fallen tributes are appearing in the sky. Janice, Jordan, Cole, Huan, and Julius. Maybe my face will be there someday. Maybe I'll look up one night and see Kevin or Scott or Kirstie. I fall asleep while she watches over us.

I dream I'm shooting arrows into Janice. I wake in the middle of the night as a hovercraft snatches Huan's body away. I drift off again and I dream I'm drowning in blood. Julius is keeping my head submerged and Janice is throwing knives at me. I dream I'm cutting into Huan's neck. I dream a hovercraft comes and takes her away again. Another comes for me. The claw closes around me, and I can't run because I'm dead.

I feel tired when I wake in the morning. How much longer do I have to do this? Scott is still asleep by me, and Kevin is just beginning to rise. "Where's Kirstie?" he asks.

I don't see her anywhere. I thought she would stay longer. A gun is missing from the pile, but she reset the alarm after taking it. She can't kill anyone without bullets, but the other tributes don't realize it's empty. No doubt she took some knives as well, and I hope she took rations. "She's gone." She didn't kill us in our sleep. She should have. I may never see her again. If I do, it will be the last time.


	28. Chapter 28

Rain pours down on us all morning. Kirstie is alone in the forest. Did she at least take a tarp with her? I'm sure she thought to, but it would have been hard to take without waking us. The storm only grows worse over the course of the day. I count the pauses between the flashes of lightning and the booms of thunder, not because I'm afraid it's too close, but because I'm afraid I'll mistake the thunder for the sound of a cannon. Kirstie will be fine, I tell myself. She's strong. She's smart. She trained for this. She prepared to survive in the rain forest. She has weapons, and none of the other tributes do. She may not be optimistic about her chances, but I think she still wants to live. Why else would she have left us?

Why did she give up? Scott didn't exactly expose her lie. She could have ignored his comment and hoped I would still distrust him. She could have tried some other way to drive us apart. Maybe seeing Huan die really bothered her. Maybe it had something to do with learning I let Fortis die. That was the first thing she brought up when she started acting differently. I let her down. She exploited two of her closest friends for her own survival, but I couldn't bring myself to exploit someone I barely knew for my team. She must also have noticed how much I trusted Scott. He risked his life for me. He killed Huan for me. After that, how could she possibly hope to persuade me he would betray me?

It's stupid, but I miss her, and I'm terrified I'll see her face in the sky tonight. She has to die, though, and I don't want to be the one to kill her. It doesn't make sense to keep hoping she's alive, but, no matter how hard I try, I can't hope she's dead.

We wait all morning in the tent. I'm worried the gamemakers will get bored and send some plague to incite more action. I'm already miserable enough. Sitting here with nothing to do, I'm accosted by everything from my overpowering shame to the unbearable heat and humidity. I've been wearing the same clingy, sweaty, wet clothes since I boarded the hovercraft to come here. I set aside my jacket, peel off my shirt, and hold it out at arm's length, letting it soak up the torrential rain. I wring it out over the ground and repeat until it's clean, then wring it out one last time over my mouth. It tastes different from the bottled water I'm accustomed to. "It seems like forever ago," Scott says.

"What?"

"Have you heard the story, Kevin? Kirstie and I were at his house one day, and his sister spilled an entire pitcher of water on him." He's talking about my first tattoo. I scarcely notice it anymore. "His tee was soaked, and we could see the tattoo through it. He had it for a whole month without telling us! When Kirstie pointed it out, he was just like, 'Oh, this old thing?'" Scott, don't bring her up. I'm trying so hard not to think about her, or about you. It's not working, though, so I might as well talk about her.

"I don't believe that for a minute," Kevin laughs.

"Nor should you. I never told you the real story, Scott. There was no way I could have kept it secret that long." I never was good at keeping secrets. "I planned the whole thing out. I told my sister to douse me, and she was happy to oblige. This was only a few days old," I say, pointing at the logo on my chest. "It was still a little red when you saw it. I was too impatient. I'm surprised you didn't notice. I'm sure Kirstie did, but she didn't say anything. She was so sweet." What happened to her? Did she change, or have we just been seeing a different side of her? Either way, I'm amazed I'm still alive. Maybe she poisoned our rations before she left.

"I miss her," sighs Kevin.

"Me too. I shouldn't, but..."

"It's my fault she's gone," Scott says, dropping his forehead into his palms. "But why did she have to do that to us? I could be home right now." I'm so sorry. I'm sorry he's here, and I'm sorry I want him to be. I twist at my shirt, trying to think of something to say. A cannon fires. His eyes go wide and his face turns deathly white. "No." He's shaking. "No."

"It isn't her," I whisper. Scott stares straight ahead. "It isn't her."

He shakes his head, but he can't speak. He's wringing his hands. He closes his eyes. "Maybe not," he says hesitantly, "but it will be. Every time a cannon fires, it could be her. And if she lives, then one of the cannons will be for you. Is she gone already?" His voice cracks and I start to lose it. "I'm not going to get to say goodbye." None of us are. The rain stops, but he makes up for it in tears. I might be able to keep it together without him, but there is no way I can put it out of my mind while Scott is sobbing. For hours, we cry and share old memories. We don't even know if she's alive or not, but Scott's right. In all likelihood, she's not going to make it, and if she does, I won't be alive to see her.

Two more cannons fire before the sun sets. Kevin starts to sing "Abide with Me," and I join in. I barely know the words, and I don't even make it through the part I do remember before the lump in my throat blocks my voice. What made me think I could go on living without Kirstie, Scott, and Kevin? Avi won't even look at me if I do survive. I don't want to live anymore. All I want now is not to die, and I'm beginning to wonder even about that.

The sky turns dark and the first face appears. I'm too afraid to look up. "Yvette," Kevin says.

"I thought she would last longer." Maybe she died attacking another tribute.

"Coros," he says. I sigh in relief, but I hold my breath again. There's still one more fallen tribute to go. Why does it even matter so much to me when she dies? Maybe it's better if he says her name now so I don't have to spend all of tomorrow wondering. I hear him draw breath and I regret the thought immediately. "Romulus." The young boy. Not Kirstie. Maybe she'll die tomorrow or the day after. Maybe she killed Romulus or Yvette or Coros. Maybe she killed all three of them. Maybe she'll come back to kill us. Curse this. Curse Lepidus Steward and his Games. Curse the districts and curse the Capitol. Curse me for ever watching the Games. Why do people die?

"She's alive!" Scott is smiling, but clenching his fists, torn between genuine happiness and whatever it is I'm feeling right now. He pulls at his hair and shakes his head violently. "Make it stop." He steps out of the tent and calls Kirstie's name at the top of his mighty lungs, again and again and again. I can't handle it. I cover my ears and rock back and forth. I'm going to go out of my mind. I wish I could go out of my mind. Kevin pulls me into a tight hug. "Come back!" Scott cries hoarsely. "KIRSTIE!"

I bite my lips, then scream into Kevin's shoulder. He hugs me tighter, patting my back and crooning like a parent does for a newborn. "There, there. I know." I try to relax, to calm down and breathe evenly, but Scott is still shouting for Kirstie and my heart is breaking. Kevin lets go of me and takes my hand. "Come. Look." He leads me out of our shelter. "Look how bright they are. Kirstie's still out there somewhere, under the same stars. Maybe she's looking at them right now and thinking of us." I've never left the City. I've never seen stars like this. You could leave the Capitol without special authorization, but you couldn't get back in. I had no idea stars could be this bright. I hope she does see them.

"They remind me of home," Kevin says, almost to himself.

"Why? I miss the food and the comfort, and I miss Avi and Kirstie and my sister and my parents, but I don't miss the stars. These are so much brighter."

"Oh, right. Of course." He looks up at them again with warm familiarity while I behold the galaxy for the first time in awestruck wonder. For all the diamonds and sparkling lights in the Capitol, we do not have a sky like this. "The Capitol was good to us," Kevin says, "but I still miss this about my old home." He was born and raised in the City. He must be talking about his parents' heritage. "You know that my parents are from abroad." I nod. "That's not entirely true. My mom is from Panem." I had all but forgotten Kevin was keeping a secret. Why would he lie about that, though? "She's from District Six."

"Impossible."

"My dad had a short layover on the way to the Capitol, where he had just accepted a job. A man at his terminal had a stroke, and he tried to help, but there was nothing that could be done. By the time my mom arrived with medical supplies, it was too late. She took the dead man's ticket. My dad saw, and insisted on helping us."

"Us?"

"I'm from District Six too." That can't be. We've known each other for years. How could I not know this? It would explain why he's seen stars like this before, though. It would explain a lot more than that. "I was seven. My siblings and I went everywhere with Mom. We had nowhere else to go. We got past the gate because of the medical emergency, and then it was just a matter of hiding us away in carry-on bags."

"Then your real father-"

"My birth father? Pneumonia. I was only three." Pneumonia doesn't have to be fatal. Conditions must have been terrible for Kevin's father to die of it when his own wife was a nurse.

"I'm sorry."

"We flew to the Capitol and my dad, the one you know, covered for us by saying we were his family. He gave us a room and put my mom in touch with the hospital, where she got a job as a nurse. They really did marry not long after."

"Who else knows?"

"This is the first time I've told anyone. Not even Avi knew. My whole family could have been killed if the authorities found out. Paylor is from the districts, though. She isn't like that. My family is finally safe. I just wanted you to know, and I wanted everyone to know." There are cameras hidden everywhere, in the trees, in the cornucopia, and even in the ground cover. There is no such thing as an intimate conversation in the arena. "I really do believe there can be peace between the districts and the Capitol. It's going to take a lot of work, though. Violence won't help. The Games won't help. I wish I could believe they will, and that my death will serve some greater purpose, but violence only breeds more violence. I'm so sad to have been a part of it."

"I'm going to miss you, Kevin." If I live. Scott keeps shouting, but Kirstie isn't listening. One way or another, this will all be over soon. The end is coming. The Games will stop. One of us will go home. The pain won't be over, though. The nightmares won't stop. The scars won't heal.


	29. Chapter 29

"What was it like, Kevin?" Scott asks. His voice is hoarse and his eyes are red. Kevin decided to give him the night to calm down. He told Scott this morning what he told me last night. It never occurred to me to ask questions, but Scott as been doing nothing else all day, and Kevin is telling us about his early childhood. It's good to have the distraction, but most of the memories are not happy ones. He grew up with cold winters and too little food. His mother never had enough medicine to treat patients, and people were always sick with diseases we never see in the Capitol, diseases that are easily preventable with clean water, vaccination, and effective sanitation. Of course, that's not how he tells the story. He tells us about snowball fights, about generous people who shared even when they had little for themselves, and about how hard his mother worked. He sees a glass half full, so I have to read between the lines to see that it was all but empty.

As the day progresses, I grow increasingly uneasy. We haven't heard any cannons yet. I don't need another reminder of the fragility of life, of the people I've killed, and of the possibility Kirstie is dead, but the gamemakers need action. When Scott asks why I'm singing, I tell him it makes me feel better, but that isn't the reason. I'm hoping it will buy us time. He sings with me and we step into the forest, never so far that Kevin can't hear us. We set up snares, and Scott finds some bland but edible leaves. They're a welcome change from bugs. At night, there are no faces in the sky.

The next day, I persuade the others to compose a new song with me. Kevin understands, but I don't think Scott realizes the danger we're in yet. We're like the bride in One Thousand and One Nights. The moment the audience gets bored of us, we'll be swallowed up by a sinkhole or attacked by wolves. We can't just wait for someone else to kill people off. It's not happening.

We finish the parts to our song, but we don't know the lyrics yet. It starts sad, then turns intense and powerful, then ends abruptly. We each write our own words. Kevin turns it into, of all things, a love song, beautiful and touching. Scott's lyrics are ambiguous. You could interpret them any number of ways, but, as he recites them to me, they sound bitter and resentful. When we learn it and sing it, though, it surprises me. The way Scott sings it and the way the words align with the tune make it much deeper. Under the anger, there's anguish, and under that, regret, and under that, I can't quite tell. I ask to sing it again, and this time I listen closely to Scott's voice. It sounds like fear, maybe, or doubt. We sing both versions until they're perfect, except that Kirstie is gone. I know that if Avi is watching, he's filling in with the bass.

My own lyrics aren't ready yet, though. They don't tell a story the way Kevin's do. They aren't even coherent sentences, just words and short phrases. The trick is to listen to their moods and their flavors, not their meanings. The sun sets on another day with no deaths. I'll wait until tomorrow to share my song.

I wake up late at night to the sound of a cannon. It was just a dream. No, Scott's up too, and Kevin, who was keeping watch, is troubled. Who died? Would I feel something if it was Kirstie? Would I know somehow?

Thick fog sulks over the ground the next morning, and my hair is wet with dew. I stretch and yawn silently, then slip out of the tent. Scott is watching the forest with a grim face. I walk a few times around the cornucopia to loosen my limbs, then clear a space and sit next to him. I have to move a few weapons out of the way. We sleep with them in the tent, and I keep two on my belt loops at all times. I'm getting used to this. I have every reason to be sad and angry, and I am, but the emotions are fading like background noise. I'm becoming accustomed to my environment and callous to my feelings. In a way, I'm almost comfortable. That means I'm boring, and that means I don't have much time. Today is the day I have to fight Scott.

"You knew," he says. He's still staring at the forest and his expression hasn't changed, but his tone is frightening.

"Knew what?" I don't have to ask. I know exactly what he's talking about, and he's not making it up. I knew Kirstie betrayed him and Kevin. I knew, and I didn't say a word. I didn't even warn him about how dangerous she was. I didn't lie to him, but I didn't tell him the truth either. For over a decade, we've never been able to argue about anything, but I'm about to find out what it's like. This is not going to be fun.

"You knew Kirstie was going to threaten you at the interviews."

The interviews? That's not what I was expecting. "No!" I shout. Kevin wakes, sits up, and watches us silently.

"You brought the knife for her."

"It was for dramatic effect."

"You were in on it. It's why you wanted me to forgive her."

"That's not the reason!"

"It's why you tried to kill her. She changed the plan."

"Wait, what?"

"You tried to save me." He drops to my eye level. "Thank you."

It takes a moment for me to grasp what's going on in his head. He thinks I was part of Kirstie's plot. He thinks I was planning to free him, Kevin, and Avi, but that Kirstie double-crossed me, and I tried to kill her for it. That's a lot easier for him to believe. It would mean I was trying to help him. It would mean I had a reason for trying to kill Kirstie. I'm tempted to let him believe it. "Is that what you think, Kevin?"

"Do you really want to know?" I nod. "I think you were in on it, but I don't think you were trying to save us. I think you were like Kirstie. You let Avi go because you thought he and I would team up against you. You trapped Scott and me because you knew you could use us. You tried to kill Kirstie because she wasn't as useful to you." Kevin is kind, but he isn't stupid.

"I wish I could say I tried to save you," I say, "but it isn't true. I didn't plot to trap you either, but Kevin still has the right idea. I was glad you both were stuck, and I am using you. I'm a parasite."

"I should kill you."

"Yes."

"I really should, though. How will you live with yourself?"

"Drag me."

"I didn't mean... I'm sorry. That was harsh. I'm worried for you, though."

"Worried about life after the Games?"

"Imagine a world where I survive. A world without either of you. A world without Kirstie. Nothing and no one would stop me from drinking myself to death."

"Don't you dare."

"The point is-"

"Don't you dare even talk like that, Scott Richard. If you live, then my dying wish, my last request, is for you to hold yourself together, even if you have to do it with duct tape. What I said before was true: you can grieve as long as you want, and you can be happy whenever you're ready, but you absolutely do not have my permission to throw your life away. Do you understand me?" He looks shocked. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"

"Yes, sir."

"Promise me if you live, you won't do that to yourself."

"I'm not going to live."

"PROMISE ME!" I'm screaming in his face.

"I can't. I wouldn't be able to help it."

"You've been sober for months. Physically, you're capable, and you don't have to do it alone. Promise me you'll keep going."

"Is that what you'll do? How would you hold yourself together?"

"I don't know."

"Think about it."

"I don't want to." I've tried hard not to.

"Mitch, you have to."

"Fine," I spit. "Here's the plan. You asked for it. I'll go home and my family will try to fix me, and I'll pretend it's working and that I'm healing, but, if I kill you, I will never, ever forgive myself. I'll go live alone, and I will miss you every day. I will never stop seeing you die in my nightmares, but I won't drown my sorrows. I don't deserve to forget even for a minute. I'll do something with my life, but nothing I could possibly accomplish would ever make up for even a fraction of what I've done or make me worth even a little bit more. I will spend my whole life hating myself and wondering if it would have been better for someone to kill me in the arena. I will regret my selfishness more and more every day, but I'll never be able to take it back."

"And that's why you've been trying to make me your enemy, isn't it?"

"I'd rather have my enemy's blood on my hands than my best friend's, but no matter what I do, I can't seem to make you hate me, so I'm just going to have to find a way to deal with it."

"Run." Kevin's voice is steady, but urgent. He's nocking an arrow and leveling his bow. Scott reaches instinctively for a spear. I grab a knife in each hand and scramble to my feet. Kevin is aiming at a pair of bright yellow eyes peering from the edge of the forest. A massive black jaguar is shifting on its hind legs, tail twitching, winding up to pounce. Kevin pulls his bowstring tighter and Scott lifts his spear. I stumble backwards. It springs forward without warning. Kevin's arrow meets its face, and I hear a bone-chilling howl, equal parts snarl, roar, and shriek. It doesn't stop. Scott is waiting for it to come in range of his spear. There are a dozen more eyes where the first panther appeared. All at once, they burst forward. Scott throws his spear. Kevin releases another arrow. I run.

I'm completely focused on my muscles, willing them to push harder. Breathe, stride, breathe, stride, breathe, stride. The jaguar always seems to be just a few yards behind me. I crash through a mile of forest at an unsustainable pace. My whole body is in pain. Jaguars are four times faster than people, and they catch their prey in seconds. This should have been over long minutes ago, but the gamemakers have done something to slow down the animal and drag this out. Even so, it slips through the air silently and steadily. I'm losing speed. I struggle to go faster, but I cannot. I hear the gap closing. It's going to snap my neck in its jaws. I grip my knives and turn to face it. Them. There are two, one just behind the other.

My heart skips. I throw a knife with all the force I can muster. The closest panther veers to the side, and the knife rips a gash into his shoulder before hitting the ground. His teeth are bared and he's leaping forward. I step back and lash out at his head, yelling from deep in my chest. I feel my knife connect with his snout and slice across his face. He recoils and swings his paw out. My shouts turn to screams as his hooked claws tear open my right forearm. Searing pain shoots through me and a fresh wave of adrenaline makes me shake. I raise my hands up and out, scream louder, and charge at him. He runs. I turn immediately to the other panther. He's crouching out of arm's reach, preparing to attack. I don't think he understands that my weapons are projectiles, not claws. I hurl a knife into his left eye as he pounces. He twists midair and is already running from me when he lands. I watch him disappear into the forest, taking my weapon with him, then fall to my knees.

I can't look at my arm. The cuts run deep. I'm trying not to imagine my blood pumping out of my severed arteries and flowing across the ragged edges of my shredded flesh. Even if I can stop the bleeding, I'll get an infection, I'll get a fever, and I'll die delirious, but it's better than dying right away. Holding the wrist of my sleeve in my teeth, I pull my left arm into the body of my shirt, then gracelessly pull it over my head, taking off all but the right arm. I'm going to wrap it tightly around my wound, but I catch a glimpse of my cuts and gag. Pressure and elevation won't be enough. Keeping my eyes shut tightly, I make a tourniquet from my sleeve. The rest of the shirt I wrap around the wounds, grimacing at the lightest touch. I lie down and breathe methodically to lower my heart rate, and I gingerly elevate my damaged arm over my head to slow the bleeding. The burning pain is a good distraction from the feeling of crushing defeat and the agony of waiting to lose my own life.

I hope Kirstie or Kevin or Scott wins for me. I hope Scott wins. The comfort of that thought is tainted by the image of someone finding his body locked in a room alone, his lifeless fingers still curled around the neck of a bottle. I know he'll try to honor my last wish, but I don't know if he'll succeed. Alcohol has its teeth in him, and even though he's not physically dependent at the moment, I'm afraid he'll turn back to it to try to cope. I won't be there to stop him.

It would be better if Kevin won, or Kirstie, if she's out there still. They would get help. They would try to heal. I don't want Scott to die, though. He's been impossibly good to me, impossibly loyal. I don't want Kevin to die either. He's been so forgiving and so selfless, and Kirstie, even though she's only ever intended to kill me, is the only one who truly understood me. Maybe part of the reason I wanted to live was because I didn't want to pick one of them. No, I already know. In spite of everything, the answer is still Scott. "You're strong," I say. "You can do it." My exhaustion gradually overcomes my pain, and I keep muttering encouragements as I drift off to sleep. He can listen to this when I'm gone.


	30. Chapter 30

I wake to excruciating pain. I moved ever so slightly in my sleep and bumped the stick in my tourniquet. It hurts as much as the lacerations. I know that leaving it on too long is dangerous, but I have no idea how long is too long. This is one of the first things I studied after the reaping, but everything I read just said to "Go to a hospital as soon as possible," and, "Get immediate medical attention to remove the tourniquet." If I'm not careful, the bleeding will start again. I already feel a bit lightheaded, but I'm not sure if it's from blood loss or just from thinking about it. The shirt is soaked through with blood, and it's beginning to darken. I don't feel it flowing anymore. It's not so bad seeing it when it's dry. There are no signs of infection yet, from what I can see, and I'm not running a fever. Did they vaccinate the panthers? They wouldn't do it for my sake, but maybe they would for the protection of their handlers. Even scratches from normal-sized feral cats are worth a trip to the ER because of all the sicknesses they can carry: rabies, cat scratch disease, and tetanus, for starters. Even if I'm safe from those, though, I'm going to get something. My shirt is better than anything else I have, but it's far from sterile. I would kill (even literally) for clean dressings. Everything here is warm and damp and begging to foster bacteria.

I can let it fester and hope the Games end quickly. How long do I have before they'll have to amputate my arm? How long before they wouldn't be able to save me? A week? The Games aren't just going to end by themselves. I have to make them end. I have to find and kill ten tributes in less than a week with three knives and an untreated jaguar wound. Hopeless.

As if to prove me wrong, I hear footsteps nearby. I prop myself up quietly and lay out my knives, keeping them within reach, but concealing them under fern fronds. My fingertips rest lightly on a rough hilt. I'll wait for the tribute to come close before I strike. There's no point in risking missing. They'll think I'm dying and come to finish me off. The footsteps come closer and I droop my eyelids to look more vulnerable. Well, if it isn't Kevin Twelve Olusola. Maybe I stand half a chance after all.

"Hey, babe," I smile.

"Thank goodness you're alive!"

"Of course I am. No cannon."

"I thought I must just have missed it in the chaos. You were being chased by two panthers! I honestly thought you didn't stand a chance. I looked for Scott first because there was only one chasing him, and I thought he might make it, but I didn't find him. No, don't worry. I think he's okay. I found the body of the panther that was chasing him. His tracks were gone after that, though. I think he must be hiding them or staying in a tree to avoid the other tributes. You, on the other hand, left quite a trail. You're just lying there defenseless! Let me see your arm."

I hold up a knife. "Not entirely defenseless. Two for me, one for him... How many panthers for you? Four? Five? You're unscathed!" He's carrying a first-aid kit, which means he held his ground at the cornucopia.

"It's a good thing, too. I wouldn't be much help to you if I were bleeding, would I?"

"You could win, Kevin, easily. Why are you helping me?" Because it's right, I guess.

"It's the right thing to do." Called it.

"Okay, but hear me out. I'm a killer, and you're helping me. Isn't that bad?" I know he won't agree, but I'm curious about what goes on in his head.

"I could stop."

"Okay, you win."

"Bite or scratch?"

"Scratch, three claws, deep."

"Did you wash it?"

"No. How bad is it, Kevin?"

"Not good. If it doesn't get infected, you'll make it and you'll probably be fine, but if it does, you're in trouble. It needs irrigation, then stitches. I need supplies, but I'm not going to leave you here. Hop on." This time I don't ask him to put me down. His back is warm and sweaty, but sweat, like tears, stopped bothering me well before the Games began. Sweat is good. Sweat means hard work.

We set out to find water. Once in a while Kevin stops to grab wood to burn from under a dense tree or from inside a dead log. I feel useless. When we find a stream, he makes me lie down while he builds a fire and boils water in the first aid box. While it cools, he says, "You want to live, right, Mitch?" I nod hesitantly. "And you trust me?" I don't like where this is going. "This is going to hurt." He fills a plastic syringe with water.

"It already hurts."

"Hold this in your teeth." I had wondered what the rubber bar in the first aid kits was for. When I put it in my mouth, I realize it's so I won't accidentally bite through my tongue or cheeks because of the pain. He leaves the tourniquet just below my elbow, but unwraps the part of my shirt covering my wounds and starts pushing water from the syringes into the openings, cleaning them out. He's being as gentle as possible, but my eyes are filling with tears, and he has to hold my hand to keep my arm steady. He starts a weirdly one-sided conversation with me. He asks questions absentmindedly, focusing on his work and not listening to the answers. He's trying to take my mind off the pain.

After a tortuous eternity, he puts away the syringe. "Close your eyes. You can scream if it makes you feel better." He starts stitching me up. When he sutures one wound, the other two parallel cuts are stretched open. He puts a stitch in each before going back to the first. I lose count of how many stitches he makes. It hurts every time he pierces my skin and every time he ties a knot, but this is actually not as bad as when he was washing them out. "That's the last one." He squeezes my hand. "You're a trooper. This is the part where I give you a sticker, but there aren't any in here." He wraps my arm tightly in a layer of gauze and I finally open my eyes. Very slowly and very tentatively, he unwinds the tourniquet, waiting a few seconds with every half-twist to check that I don't start losing blood again. When it's off, he wraps more layers of gauze around me. "These need to stay for at least five days, and probably a week. Change your dressings every day if I'm not here to do it. Don't lift anything. Don't flex or squeeze your fist too hard. I know we're in the Games, but please believe me when I say you should take it easy. Hop on and I'll take you back to the base. It's been unattended for too long already."

"I'm walking. You're a beast, but you must have gone miles today. I don't understand how you're even awake still. And Kevin?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Mitch." He extends a hand to help me up and we make our way back. We come close, but we walk around the whole circumference of the clearing from a distance just to make sure no one has gotten comfortable here in our absence. I count not four, but six dead panthers. I'm glad I can trust Kevin. The Games would be over already if he killed people as easily as he kills 300-pound animals.

There's nobody here, but something is missing. The guns are all gone. I step back deeper into the shadows, and Kevin follows my lead, confused. I point to where the guns should be. "Kirstie said they weren't loaded," he whispers.

"They weren't." They weren't, and only I knew where the ammunition was, but the trap hasn't been tripped. I'm probably just being paranoid, but it doesn't seem likely someone would have reset the alarm after sounding it. There's no bait anymore, so it's pointless. That means the alarm was never tripped, which either means someone saw it and avoided it, or someone already knew about it. Kirstie? She already took a gun, and she never asked where I buried the ammo. She doesn't even know it's buried. Scott? Why would he take all of them?

Kevin touches my shoulder and points to the far side of the clearing. "Tullia," he whispers. He's farsighted, but I'm nearsighted, and I don't spot her dark figure until she scampers to the cornucopia and starts filling her small arms with supplies. I choose a knife and step forward. "No!" Kevin hisses, grabbing my wrist.

"I'm going to kill her, Kevin. Don't make me kill you first." I try not to let my voice shake. I think back to the reaping, when he let them carry him away without a fight.

"Don't hurt her!"

"I don't want to, but I have to. I'm sorry." I glance back at Tullia.

Kevin lets go of my wrist. "Drop. Your. Knife." He isn't pleading anymore. My gaze falls to a panther with a sword embedded in it's flank. My knife falls to the ground. He pulls the other two from my sides and stabs them into a tree. "I'm talking to her. You're coming with me." I nod obediently. We step forward. We hear a bang, and we see Tullia fall to the ground. We hear a boom, a cannon. I freeze. Paula climbs nimbly down from a tall, leafy tree right at the edge of the forest. She's been here the whole time, watching us from above. She saw me set the trap and she remembered where I buried the bullets. She tosses Tullia's body over her shoulder and dumps it in the forest, then climbs back up to her perch and settles in, waiting for her next victim.

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	31. Chapter 31

"Thank you for everything, Kevin." I turn back and take my knife from the ground. "I don't deserve it." I hang the knife through my belt loop and grab another from the tree where he left it. It's harder to dislodge than I expected. "You deserve better." I can't stay here with him if he won't let me kill anyone. I take the third knife and turn to look at him.

"It's been an honor, Mitch." My heart sinks as I realize this is our last farewell. I was worrying he wouldn't let me go, not thinking about what would happen after. "I'm blessed to have had you as a colleague and a friend." He extends his hand. How can he say that to me? How can he want to shake my hand when I've violated all his principles? As I move to take it, I realize simultaneously that I can't give a firm handshake because of the state of my arm, and that he's already thought of that. He's holding out his left hand for me. When I shake it, he pulls me into a tight hug.

I'm having a hard time not just bursting into tears and clinging to him. If this is it, though, I want to say something meaningful. "The honor is mine. I've never understood you, but I revere you, Kevin. You have as much character and integrity as anyone to walk the earth." Kevin has never been perfect, but while the Games brought out the worst in me, they revealed the best in him. I'm overwhelmed by how deep his goodness runs. I've told him I respect him, but I love him too, and I'm at a loss for a way to express how much. Love is something you show with actions, not words, and I've shown none at all. He saved my life. He killed for me. He carried me home. He fed me. He sought me out and treated my wounds. I threatened to kill him. Even though he's closer and more precious now than my own family, I'm not going to say, "I love you," after that. I know what it's like to hear those words from someone too broken to do anything but inflict pain. That's who I've become, and it's better that I leave. "I'm so sorry. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Mitch." He squeezes me before he lets go. He picks up the first aid kit and hands it to me, then unties his jacket from around his waist and drapes it over my bare shoulders. I left mine in the tent when I ran away. I ran away while he fought six panthers for us, and now he's giving me his own jacket. It will protect my bandages from the rain, and he'll be soaked through. He's not telling me he loves me; he's showing me.

I look him in the eye. "I don't know if I'll live, but if I do, I'm going to hate myself, and I don't think that will ever change. I'm don't even think it should. This will make it better, though. I'm going to feel worthless and unlovable, but even if there's nothing good in me, the fact that you value me makes me valuable. Even though I've done nothing to earn it, the fact that you've loved me means I'm lovable. This means everything. Thank you." I wish I could repay him somehow.

"You're welcome." He doesn't want repayment. The world will be a worse place without him. I hug him one last time and walk away quickly, unable to look back at what I'm leaving behind.

I take a wide circle around the clearing, keeping well out of Paula's view. There's nothing I can do about her. She's too high even for arrows. She'd just shoot me if I tried to cut down the tree, and even if she didn't notice me, I wouldn't be able to set it on fire. I have to wait for someone else to go to the cornucopia like Tullia did. Tullia. Is this what the districts want? The blood of a sweet young girl? Kevin is right. Violence like this isn't going to make peace.

The thought of sitting down and waiting for someone to come die so I can kill Paula is distasteful. Instead, I pick up Scott's trail. Kevin couldn't find him, so I probably won't either, but if nothing else, I'll find some jaguar meat. That's not what's driving me, though. I'm lonely.

It doesn't take long at all to find the dead panther. It's only 500 feet into the forest. The carcass has attracted flies already, and it's beginning to smell faintly. I can kill the bacteria by cooking it, but not the toxins they leave behind. As much as I'd like to cut it up and eat it as revenge for the wounds its brother left in my arm, I'm going to stick with leaves and bugs.

There's no trace of Scott nearby. I could call out for him, but I don't want to give my location away to everyone. I pucker my lips and whistle two notes, one short and low, the other long and high. I try to make it sound bird-like, but he'll still recognize it. Gooood-byyyyyyyyyyye! I meander, and after a while, a bird picks up the tune. It's not a mockingjay, just a normal mockingbird. It can't get the second note quite right. I start to whistle it again, and this time it starts just a beat after me. "That's harmony!" we exclaim in unison. Scott is sitting in a tree with a spear resting in the crook of each elbow.

"Are you hurt?" I ask. "Why didn't you go back to the cornucopia?"

"I'm fine. I just... I couldn't bring myself to go back." That sounds like me, not him. He isn't one to hide away alone.

"Were you avoiding me?"

"You're hurt. What happened?" Nice segue, Scott. What's wrong with him? He's been hiding something. He told me not to ask about it, and I trust him... of course I trust him. He's only ever protected me. He risked his life for me. That was before he started being weird, though. Did I do something? Was it one of the million awful things I said?

"Scott, I can trust you, right?"

"What? Um, of course."

"Oh. Right. Glad to hear it." We're silent for a while. "Scott, if you're planning to kill me, please just do it now."

"No! I'm going to protect you 'til it's- I'm going to protect you."

"Until it's what, Scott?"

"Until my last breath."

"Okay. I believe you." I want to, anyway. "It was a panther. Kevin stitched me up, and then we," went back to the cornucopia... "parted ways." I want to trust him, but I can't.

"I guess we should go back."

"No, Kevin's holding it down." I'm not going to tell him about Paula. I might need her to kill him for me.

"He shouldn't have let you come looking for me alone."

"He didn't. I snuck away and left him a note." Lying, again. I wonder how long I'll be able to keep it up this time. This could turn bad fast if Scott finds a reason to go back to the cornucopia without telling me. At least I wouldn't have to pull the trigger that way.

"Mitch, are you okay? You seem tense."

"I have to get out of here. Kevin helped, but I need a real hospital, and that means I have to start killing people. He's not okay with that, so I had to leave."

"Okay," Scott nods, twirling his spears. The more people we kill, the closer we come to his death. Why doesn't that bother him? Is he planning to live? Something is wrong. I can't ignore it anymore.

"You hate me, don't you."

"No!"

"It's obvious. I should have seen it sooner. When I told you I tried to kill Kirstie, that was the last straw. You're using me. You're just waiting 'til-"

He cuts me short. "That's not me, it's you. You're projecting." Maybe he's right. "I wouldn't kill you, okay?"

Maybe it's all in my head. The Games are enough to make anyone paranoid. He deserves better from me. "Okay. I'm sorry." He drops from his tree and puts his arm around my shoulder. All my doubts vanish. I shut my eyes and lay my head on his shoulder. He makes me feel like everything will be okay. I rest for a moment and breathe in the damp air, but something's nagging at the back of my head. I spoke up, then I backed down and apologized. That turns into a pattern so, so easily when you spend time with the wrong people. Scott has never been manipulative, though, not with me or with anyone else I know of. He's certainly not trying to be. Then again, nobody tries. It comes naturally. How long has this been going on? "I'm sorry," I repeat meekly, watching his face carefully this time.

"Don't be sorry. Don't ever feel bad for telling me what's on your mind." Well, there goes that theory. If he's not messing with my head, though, why does he make me feel one minute like he's going to kill me and the next like I have nothing to fear as long as he's with me? This is screwed up.

"You're acting really weird. When should I start thinking about killing you?" I'm half joking, but he doesn't smile.

"Not yet. You'll know when."

"I didn't mean-"

"I know you don't want to kill me, but I want to protect you until my last breath, and if it works, you and I will be the last ones standing. I don't want to talk about it. Let's go find some people to kill. Let's get you home."


	32. Chapter 32

[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WeVf6fWu1as ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WeVf6fWu1as)

I run through the list of survivors in my mind. Kevin was near the cornucopia, and Paula was in the tree. Scott and I are right here. I still don't know who the cannon last night was for. There's Antonia, the strategist. I wonder what she's been scheming. She probably set everything up even before the Games. She seemed so confident, and unless last night's cannon was for her, whatever she's been plotting has been working. There's Mariah. I wonder if she really did give up, or if it was just an act. She made it at least as far as last night. There's Titus. He's young, but maybe just old enough still to be alive. There's Stella, the poisoner. What is there to poison if she's alone? There's Elias, the archer. Maybe he's crafted a bow for himself. I look over my shoulder. I hope not. I'll rest easier if it's his face I see in the sky tonight. There's Keith, probably the strongest now besides Kevin and Scott. There's Kirstie. She can't have gone far. She knows the gamemakers will find a way to drive her back toward the action if she strays. The best way to find her, if she's still alive, will be by looking for her traps and snares. I don't want to find her, though. It's awful waiting, but I know it will be infinitely worse when one of us dies. I don't know how I'll endure it.

I wander through the trees with Scott for a while, trying to walk in a straight line and slashing grooves in trees to mark the way back. This is not actually going to work. People will just hide when they see us coming. We have to look like we're alone so they'll try to attack us. I cover the knives on my hips with Kevin's jacket and hand the one I'm holding to Scott. "We have to put some distance between us." I persuade him to step away past where we can see each other through the leaves. He's supposed to whistle every thirty seconds, and I'm supposed to respond immediately. It doesn't last long. He can't go ten seconds without signaling. I stop him and sing instead, and he whistles at the end of each verse to let me know he's still there. "Are you going to the Scarborough fair?" I sing sweetly. "Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme!" I'm a siren, luring people to their deaths with my voice. My weapons are hidden, Scott is hidden, and I'm clearly injured. If nobody tries to attack me, it's because there's nobody here. After about a mile and a half, we turn right and keep walking.

I try to pretend I'm just on vacation, singing in the forest for the fun of it. Every time Scott whistles, though, I'm reminded that nothing is the same. A cannon fires, and I keep singing, blocking out my thoughts. I hear someone approaching. They're not close yet, and they're not bothering to be quiet. It's someone who has reason to be confident, then, probably Keith. I don't look around or show that I've heard, but I let my song trail off and whistle for Scott to come. He doesn't reply. Keith starts running toward me, fast. I bite my lip to keep from screaming. I just assumed Scott would be safe, that I'd be attacked first. That's how animals hunt. Tributes are smarter, though. I looked too easy. He realized it was a trap and he followed me until he heard Scott, and then he killed him. That means he has a knife and two spears now. That means Scott is...

I slip my hand under the jacket and grip my knife. I hold the first aid kit in front of me like a shield. Maybe if I carve Keith's heart out, I'll pass out and not have to think about my best friend, my former best friend, for a few seconds. I'm going to avenge him if it's the last thing I do.

Part of me is hoping it's the last thing I do.

I turn around, draw my knife, and aim in one motion. I see a spear gripped tightly in his right hand, and both the knife and a spear in his left. His knuckles are white and he's ready to throw. Keith has bronze hands. Keith's chest isn't as far from the ground as the chest I'm aiming at. Keith's hair isn't blond, and his eyes aren't blue. I drop the knife behind my back in surprise. "What's the matter?" Scott asks breathlessly, scanning the trees behind me for an attacker.

"Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"You didn't respond when I whistled."

"I thought you heard me coming."

"I thought you were Keith! I thought the cannon was for you!" Scott sighs with relief. "Why did you come in the first place?"

"It's nothing." He looks abashed.

I assume a gentler stance and study his face. His lips are tight and his brow is creased. He's looking down and away. "You heard the cannon, and you're worried about Kirstie." He nods a little. "Me too." I gather the weapons from his hands and lay them on the ground. I wrap my arms around him and he hugs me back. This is what he came for.

We don't travel much further, and we don't leave each other again. He takes me to the path he took, and we retrace his steps until we come to a caimito plant he spotted earlier. The fruit is sticky, and not fully ripe, but it's the best thing I've tasted since I came here. I eat my fill, then curl up and fall asleep with my head on his knee.

When he wakes me, it's dark. "You slept through the announcement."

"Who was it?" Who died today?

"Mariah, Elias, and..." He looks like he's afraid to tell me.

"Spit it out." Please, not Kirstie.

"Tullia."

"Oh." How could I have forgotten? She died right in front of me. Scott still doesn't know that, though. "Thanks for sparing me the suspense of the announcements. You should sleep now." I prop myself up against a tree and offer him my shoulder.

After a few hours, I'm worried I shouldn't have offered to let him sleep. I'm tired, and I'm starting to feel sick. My arm is warm, even through the bandages. It's hard staying awake, but I want to give him at least five hours. I eat another caimito to keep myself alert. He starts shifting and mumbling. He's having a nightmare. "You don't deserve- No! You don't deserve to live," he slurs. I hold his hand, but I don't wake him. He needs sleep, no matter how troubled. Eventually, the nightmare passes and he breathes evenly again. Another hour passes. "MITCH!" He sits bolt upright and opens his eyes as he shouts my name.

"I'm right here. It's just a dream. I'm right here." I squeeze his hand and he rubs his eyes, then hugs me and lets me fall asleep in his arms.

When I wake, the sun is shining dappled red through my eyelids and a booming voice fills the sky. "Attention tributes! The Games must have twenty-four participants and only one victor. As you know, not all tributes are participating." They're finally acknowledging Avi's absence. "Consequently, the rest of your lives are forfeit."

"What do they mean?" Scott asks. He knows what they mean. "They can't make us kill each other!"

"No. They're just going to send more panthers, or find another way to kill us themselves."

"Why would they tell us?"

"There's more." There has to be. Steward wouldn't do this. "They're just pausing for effect. They're probably zooming in on our shocked faces right now." I stick my tongue out. Scott sticks his middle fingers out. "Stop!" I chide. "There are kids watching!" He actually laughs. They've just told us we're all going to die, and he's laughing. I'm right. There are kids watching, and the gamemakers are probably censoring Scott's hands, even as they plot ways to kill us as violently as possible on screen.

The booming, echoey voice resumes, and Scott's face falls abruptly as he remembers where we are. "In honor of the last Hunger Games," it proclaims, "we have decided to allow one tribute in the arena to live." Scott raises his arms victoriously and then squeezes me. "On the condition," the announcer continues, "that everyone else is dead by noon."


	33. Chapter 33

"We have to get to the cornucopia." It's the focal point, the place everyone will gather for the last fight.

"You should stay behind," Scott says. "One person gets to live. You shouldn't risk going."

"I can't risk staying. What if someone else stays behind? It's like the jail thing."

"Prisoner's dilemma?" I'm glad he can still read my mind a bit.

"Right. If we're both arrested and we both rat each other out, we both get life sentences. If we both keep our mouths shut, we both get five years. If one of us talks and the other keeps quiet, the one who talks gets two years and the one who doesn't gets twenty. So what's your strategy?"

"Depends. Can we be cellmates?"

"Do you realize that these are probably our last four hours to live?" It really hasn't sunk in for me either.

"I'm glad I get to spend them with you. My strategy is to keep my mouth shut."

"Why?"

"It's better for you no matter what you pick." It's the right decision, but for the wrong reasons. I know he knows the correct strategy, though. He's the one who explained the prisoner's dilemma to me in the first place. Assuming you're going with the premise of wanting to minimize your own jail time, unlike noble Scott, you have to make a decision based on how similar you think the other prisoner is to you, not just based on the outcomes. I think the other tributes are similar to me, so I have assume we'll all pick the same thing. The ideal is for everyone else to go to the cornucopia and die while I stay behind and live, but that's not even an option if we're both making the same choices. Either we all stay or we all go.

"You're missing the point. Forget it. The bottom line is that if I stay, I probably won't be the only one, and then no one will win. We don't have long."

We stand and start walking back toward the cornucopia. After just a few steps, and a pair of silver parachutes fly past our faces without unfurling and land at our feet. I untangle a palm-sized capsule and twist it open. There's a timepiece inside that reads 08:11. Curled around the watch is a glossy piece of paper. It's a photo from high school. My sister is on my left, and my parents are standing behind us. "Come home soon, darling," reads the back. "We love you." I'll try, Mom. I love you too.

"Who's that?" Scott jokes, pointing at the lanky boy in the photo.

"Me, I think." I look down at myself. I'm as thin right now as I was then, and more muscly, but, thanks to my eating habits over the course of this abysmal week, not as healthy. My face has matured since the photo was taken. It looks much older, and, at the moment, much harrier. There's nothing on my arms in the picture, but now they're full of ink. I always thought I'd finish my sleeve, but there's only one tattoo I want anymore. If I live through today, I'm going to get a thick, solid black band all the way around my ankle.

"You've changed," Scott says. It's not just my appearance that's unrecognizable.

"You aren't so different. Did you open yours?"

"I don't want to." He hands his capsule to me. "Check if there's anything we need. I don't want to see any pictures, though." It's the same as mine, with a watch and a photograph. His sisters have grown up and moved out since this was taken, and his parents are older. I don't want to look at them. I can't imagine what this is like for them.

I hand Scott his watch and turn the picture over. "We're proud of you Scott," says Connie's bold handwriting. "We'll miss you."

"What did you tell them?" I whisper. My lungs are shuddering and my eyes are filling with tears. I offer him the photo, and he turns away, shaking his head. "Take it!" I shout raggedly. He steps back. I close my eyes and compose myself. "Take it," I say again, calmly and firmly this time. He always listens to this voice, even when he doesn't want to, and I try never to misuse it. He looks at me pleadingly, but I hold the photo out further, message-side up. A shadow comes over his brow. He's eyes are locked on mine so he doesn't have to look at it. He's going to refuse. He doesn't have to do what I tell him. He's bigger and stronger and older than me, and, even though he doesn't agree with me on this point, smarter. For years, though, he's always acted like I had some kind of authority over him. Knowing he'd let me win if I put my foot down is one of the reasons I never fought him. We respected each other too much to let it come to that for any serious topic. I don't know what it will do to our relationship (all 220 minutes of it we have left) when he drops the pretense, and I don't want to know. Maybe it's already too late to salvage anything, but I'm going to try to back down. Before I can even part my lips, though, he submits. He breaks eye contact and reads the message, leaving it in my fingers. I watch his eyes as he scans it again and again.

His posture is frozen, but his expression is shifting slowly. Usually when I exercise the authority he's given me, it's for his own good. I've stopped him from doing some remarkably stupid things. This time, though, it was for something I knew would hurt him. I wasn't sure exactly how it would affect him to see that his family has given up on him, but I think there was more to the note than that, more than I understood, and I knew it was important for his mother to be able to send one last message to her son. "Thank you," he says humbly, meeting my eyes once more. He seems more sure of himself now. I don't know how to respond. Thinking of his family gives him a reason to live, which should only make him feel more conflicted... unless he really has decided to live. No, he's just reassured by seeing that his family understands and accepts his decision to die. He pushes my hand toward me, and I put both our photos in my pocket without making him look at the other side. He hands me the knife I gave him yesterday.

"Keep it," I say. "I can trust you, right?"

He wraps my fingers around the hilt. "You take it." Well, that's not comforting. As we make our way back, I struggle to decide whether to tell him about Paula or not. I need his help coming up with a plan, but I'm more and more worried he's going to kill me if I don't surprise him first. It doesn't make sense, though. I try to reconcile everything he's said and done, but I have no idea how much of it is even real.

"Do you love me, Scott?"

"Of course." That's a strange answer. I would have expected something more hesitant, considering what I've put him through. It's probably because he's lying. I reign in my emotions and look for more information, hoping he'll say something to make me trust him.

"Are you going to kill me?"

"No."

"Are you going to go home?"

"No."

"Can I trust you?"

"N-yes."

"Scott, what the h-"

"Yes, you can trust me."

"You're kidding. Don't pull this now." I'm starting to panic. I should stab him right now, but I can't do it while he's still talking. I don't know if I can do it at all. He's still plowing through the forest, not even facing me.

"It's just that I don't trust myself entirely. I'm afraid I'll do something wrong." This isn't much of a confession when he already knows I heard him say the same thing to Cinna. It's hard to tell with his one word answers, but the more I hear him talk, the more I'm convinced he's lying. "Please believe me, Mitch! I only want what's best for you!"

Suddenly it all fits together. It makes sense now why I still feel like I can trust him when I know he's lying, why he's been so conflicted and inconsistent. He's going to kill me. He's going to kill me because he thinks it's what's best for me.


	34. Chapter 34

Scott is still trudging through the forest in front of me, and I'm trying to decide when to kill him. I could do it right now, and it would be over almost instantly, but then I would have to face Paula, Antonia, Titus, Keith, Stella, Kevin, and Kirstie alone. I can't do that. I'll just have to wait for him to turn on me and kill him then. Like that's going to happen. It doesn't matter that I have knives. He can still kill me with his bare hands. I'm going to die. I'm going to die thousands of miles from my home. I'm going to die at the hands of a man who knows me better than my own parents. I'm going to die before the sun begins to fall. I'm going to die with so many regrets.

They'll send my body back to my parents. Maybe Scott is right. Maybe it's better for them to weep over my corpse with loving memories than to welcome me home when I don't belong there anymore, when I'm twisted past recognition. They don't let murderers into society, so why should they accept victors? I'm not going to be a victor anyway. Avi is in another hemisphere, Kirstie left, Kevin won't help me, and now even Scott is against me. I only ever stood a chance because they were on my side. Not anymore.

Scott stops and turns around slowly. No, no, no. Not yet, please. I drop the first aid kit, which I shouldn't be bothering to carry now anyway, and reach for a second knife. I can't wield it effectively because of my injury, but holding the blade should be enough to keep him from grabbing my arm and twisting my stitches open. "I want to see the picture," he says quietly. Oh. I pull it from my pocket without letting go of the knife in my left hand. He studies it for a long time, then kisses it and tucks it into his pocket. "There's a letter," he says. "If you win, don't read it. Just make sure it gets to my parents. Will you do that for me?"

"Of course." Of course I'll give it to his parents. There's no way I'll be able to stop myself from reading it, though.

"It's in a first aid booklet. You'll find it when I'm gone." Does he really think I stand a chance of killing him? He told Cinna he was afraid he wouldn't have the resolve to let me win, but maybe he's actually worried he won't have the resolve to kill me. I wish I could say goodbye to him, one way or the other, but it won't mean anything when I know he's lying.

I stop Scott as soon as the clearing is in sight. Titus is scrambling to the top of the cornucopia. He's looking for something, probably the guns. Scott is about to charge in and put a spear through the boy, but I hold him back with a hand on his massive arm and a finger over my lips. We hear a gunshot. Titus screams. After another shot, he's silent. Paula climbs down gracefully and grabs Titus's ankle. I creep forward. Why does she wait until they reach the cornucopia before shooting them? It's probably best to aim when they're mostly still, but I think it's more than that. I think she's trying to give the gamemakers a show so they leave her in peace. I reach the edge of the clearing. Paula has a gun tucked into her back pocket, but she's dragging Titus toward the forest, toward me, with both hands. I run forward. She twists around and reaches for her gun. I throw a knife. I'm not really close enough yet, and I'm not standing still. The knife lands in her stomach instead of her chest. She gasps and shoots, but she's already falling. The bullet tears through the dirt in front of her. I throw another knife and it falls squarely between her collarbones. She aims and I leap to the side. She pulls the trigger. It's empty. She's choking. I avert my eyes and run past her to take new weapons from the cornucopia.

Scott is walking into the clearing now. This is my last chance. I take a heavy knife from the pile and turn toward him. "Drop them." He's within range of my knife, but I'm not in range of his spears.

"Don't kill me yet. You still need me." He stands still.

"Drop the spears." He does not. "I know, Scott. I know you're planning to kill me. I know you think that's what's best for me. You might even be right. I want to live, though. Drop your spears and I'll let you say goodbye."

"You're right, Mitch," he says, taking a step toward me. I take a step back. "I am going to kill you." His face is grim. "I'm not going to kill you because it's what's best for you, though. I'm going to kill you because you deserve to die. I hate you."

I feel my eyes opening wide and my heart beating faster. "You can't have been lying this whole time. That's not possible." This can't be right. I try to stifle my rage and understand.

"I wasn't lying, not really. I was just talking to the old you, the Mitch you've buried. Now, I'm talking to the real you, the Mitch who killed my best friend. You deserve to die."

After all the times I've betrayed him, maybe I shouldn't be angry that he's betraying me, but I am livid. "You think I don't know what I deserve?" I scream. "You think I don't hate myself too? I know I'm a parasite. I trusted you. Even when I realized you were going to kill me, I thought you still cared about me. How can you do this to me, Scott?"

"I still care about my best friend, but he's long gone and you're here instead. What did you do to him, Mitch?" His voice is full of raw anger and pain. "I needed him, and he wasn't there." Scott was there for me at the reaping. What about after that? Has he despised me this whole time? I didn't think he could lie to me, but he found a way. Has he been laughing at all my confessions? Sneering behind my back when I tell him I want to live? He wants me to die. It's not the same as the way I wanted him to die. I wanted him to die because I wanted to live. He wants me to die because he loathes me. He should hate me. I know he should, but it still makes me hate him.

Kevin makes himself known, stepping into the clearing. "Scott, Mitch, you don't want to hurt each other." He's wrong. Scott wants to kill me. I want to kill Scott. I was going to try to kill him anyway. If I weren't so disgusted, I might even be glad he's shown his true colors. It will be easier this way.

"If you move, I will kill him right now." I'm not sure why I'm waiting at all. Scott takes another step forward and raises a spear. He runs toward me. I lift my knife. I look at his face and I hesitate. I can't kill Scott. He accelerates. I aim my knife at the place his heart would be if he still had one. I close my eyes and breathe in and throw with all my strength. Kevin shouts. I open my eyes again. Scott is looking straight at me with pure shock on his face. His small blue eyes are wide. He falls to his knees and lets the spears drop from his hands. He paws helplessly at the knife embedded in his chest for a moment, then crumples into a pile of bones and flesh. Antonia, Stella, and Keith run into the clearing all at once, and Kevin charges toward me.

Kirstie is nowhere to be seen.


	35. Chapter 35

Kirstie calls Mitch onstage and I slip back to the dressing room. I don't know what she's planning to do to distract people, but I hope she has more in mind than a duet. I shave off my beard quickly and bundle my hair up into a hat. I add circles under my eyes and shadows under my cheekbones with makeup. It's all very sloppy, but the point is to look different, not to look good, and I don't have much time.

I run out and navigate to the back exit Kirstie told me about. There's a silver car waiting for me, just like she promised. I step into the backseat. "Avi!" exclaims the driver. "It's so good to see you! Kirstie said you'd know the rest of the plan. She didn't have time to tell me much. Her message said she was 'borrowing' Cinna's phone temporarily."

"She didn't tell me much either. She just said to leave immediately. We're supposed to go to the old studio." It's a brilliant refuge. We haven't recorded there for years, and even if they come looking for me there, I know all the best hiding places. More importantly, I trust the people there. They'll look out for me.

"She still can't come?" The woman in the front seat looks worried. I don't blame her.

"I'm sure your daughter has a plan." She swore she'd get all five of us out. She also gave me a code, though, and told me to find out where the arena would be. She wouldn't have done that if she weren't planning on going there.

"She's not coming, is she?"

I purse my lips and shake my head. "I don't think so. I'm not even sure she's sending the others anymore." Wouldn't they be here if she were? Maybe she needs them for her plan. I have no idea what she's doing back there.

Kirstie offered me a deal. She wanted to make an alliance behind the others' backs. She was subtle about it, and persuasive. I accepted before I realized the implications. I thought better of it, though, and I went to talk to her about it. She said it was fine and she understood, and I believed her. Maybe she didn't trust me after that, though. Maybe she thought I was going to kill her. I wouldn't. Not until it was down to the five of us, anyway. I guess I'd have to. Instead, she found a way to get me out.

"She knows what she's doing," Angelica says to herself. She drives me to the outside of town and drops me off at the studio. I'm not expected, but MC welcomes me in with a warm embrace. She warns me not to watch the interviews, but, of course, that only makes me curious. I commandeer Grant's screen and bring up a recording. I can't quite process what I see. I never would have agreed to any of this if I'd known what she had in mind. This is downright reckless. She's holding a knife against Mitch's throat! She's not who I thought she was. "Did they make it out?"

"Not that we know of," Grant says. Kevin appears on screen. What is Kirstie thinking? Scott runs out and Mitch attacks Kirstie. Is he in on it? He looks like he's going to kill her. Kevin restrains him, and the guards take them all away. Some escape plan, Kirstie. I can't help but think she should have at least sent Kevin and Scott with me. What was she thinking? She's smiling on her way out. Does she have something else up her sleeve? It's not until another hour passes and nobody shows up at the studio that I realize. I know I'm gullible, but she's the last person I would have expected to take advantage of that. She looks so innocent for one so ruthless.

Finding where the Games will be is a matter of simple bribery. It doesn't even cost me much. The gamemakers keep their mouths shut, but there are lots of independent contractors involved with nothing but a nondisclosure agreement keeping them quiet. MC gets in touch with the audio team and finds what I need to know. Grant records my message to Kirstie. I'm not sure how to get it to them, but a kid shows up at the studio one day and asks for it specifically. "He said Kirstie sent Paylor and Paylor sent him," MC explains. "He couldn't make that up. I gave him the file." It airs right after the rankings, when everyone is watching. I'm stuck in the studio, but they tell me there's a bit of a movement beginning. I try to help. I release videos online every day begging for the Games to stop. I write letters to Paylor and Steward. I organize protests anonymously. It's not enough.

They tell me not to watch the Games, and I know it's not good for me, but if one of my friends makes it out, I need to know what they've been through so I can be there for them. Besides, even though watching is torture, I can't help it. I keep hoping it will be Kevin. I'm beyond caring that it's not okay for me to play favorites. Mitch and Kirstie have changed. Scott seems the same at first, but after a while, I start to notice he's different when they aren't watching. He keeps up a good front for Mitch, but Mitch knows him too well, and he knows something's not right between them. Only Kevin is the same. Better, even. He's too good and too selfless. He's not going to make it.

When Kirstie leaves, the gamemakers focus all the attention on Scott, Kevin, and Mitch. I can't blame them. Scott and Mitch are going through all kinds of drama, Paula is starving in the treetops waiting for an opportunity to attack, and Kevin has just revealed that he's from Six. Even I had no idea. I feel like my best friend is suddenly a stranger.

The suspense is tearing me apart. I can't handle it. I give up. I stop watching. I get sick from anxiety and I can't eat anything without throwing up. I don't know what's going to happen to me when it's all over. Grant and MC promised to tell me when Kirstie, Kevin, Scott, or Mitch dies, so as long as I don't hear anything, I know they're alive. There's a hesitant knock at my door. I turn on the television immediately. They're announcing that everybody will die because of me, because I escaped. "I have to go back!"

"Turn that off. I only came to bring you these." She hands me medicine and a bottle of water. I'm lying on a couch in one of the smaller, lesser used recording rooms. "What do you hope to achieve by turning yourself over to them? Nothing has changed. Still only one of them can live."

"But what if none of them live?"

"Then that's because the gamemakers didn't want any of them to live, and there's nothing you can do to change their minds." She turns off the television and shuts the door on her way out.

She's probably right, but I have to try at least something. I down the meds and the water and I force myself into an upright position. I open the door. Grant and MC are standing right outside. They shove me back in and shut the door again. I turn on the television and pretend I've changed my mind. I hear drill dully through the sound-proof walls. The doorknob won't turn when I try it again. I collapse back onto the couch and turn back to the television.

Mitch and Scott are shouting at each other. Scott's saying he hates Mitch. He's fooling himself. He's doing a really good job of it, though. Even if he still loves Mitch as much as ever, I think there really is a part of him that hates him. He's given up on protecting him. He says Mitch isn't even the same person anymore. He's right. He raises his spear and starts running. Mitch throws... No. No. No.

They replay it in slow motion. The knife spins through the air. It doesn't miss. Scott falls. Mitch stands and stares. Kevin runs forward. If he crushes Mitch's skull right now, I will not blame him. He takes two staffs from the very bottom of the cornucopia and turns to face the other tributes. Staffs? Kill them, Kevin! They lunge at him all at once, but he keeps them back from the weapons. Mitch just stands staring at Scott. Kevin cries out and falls back. Mitch doesn't even notice. Keith kicks Kevin's head and knocks him out. He reaches for a hatchet. Stella punches him hard in the jaw. She and Antonia coordinate their attack. He can't fight them both at once. He makes a valiant effort, but they bring him down together and turn toward the weapons.

Stella is faster. She grabs a knife and holds it to Antonia's throat. "Wait!" cries Antonia. "I know where Kirstie is." Mitch looks up finally. Stella grabs another knife and aims at him. He screams and dodges. She grabs one more as he pulls his last knife from his belt. Scott pushes himself up. There's a growing circle of blood on his jacket. How is he still alive? Maybe the picture is flipped. Maybe the knife is on the right side of his chest, not the left, not in his heart. Mitch is aiming at Stella and Stella is aiming at him. Neither of them can do anything. Mitch has an advantage because he has better aim, but Stella has an advantage because she's hiding behind Antonia. Scott picks up his spear with a shaking hand and aims. He's holding it in the hand opposite his wound, and Mitch's tattoos are on the same sides as always. The video isn't mirrored. He really does have a knife in his heart, and he's still fighting. He's aiming at Stella. He's fighting for Mitch to his last breath.


	36. Chapter 36

I was expecting my soul to split into pieces or my heart to explode. Nothing's happening. Well, that's not exactly true. Kevin is running toward me. The others, Stella, Keith, and Antonia, aren't far behind. Maybe one of them will kill me. I'm dead anyway. Kirstie isn't going to waltz up and let someone kill her. She'll wait until only one of us is left, and whoever that is will probably at least be injured. Maybe I should start killing people so she'll win. I'm a little distracted, though, by the fact that Scott still seems to be breathing. I thought that was a good shot, but maybe I hit a rib. Either way, the blade is deep enough that it's not falling out. Should I try again? I'm proud of myself for actually doing it. It's not that I'm proud to be a killer. It's just that all this time, I was afraid I wouldn't have the resolve to follow through with my decision. How sad would it have been if I couldn't kill him even after his confession?

I'm proud that I didn't stab him in the back. He was facing me when I killed him. I even gave him a chance to say goodbye. I think he really did want to die. If he had wanted to save himself, he wouldn't have attacked me. He wouldn't have revealed how much he hates me. He would have played my heartstrings like he's been playing them all along. Instead of plucking and pulling at them, he tried to rip them out. In his last moments, he decided it was more important to hurt me than to say farewell to his friends and family. He wasn't trying to get even for everything I did to him, though. He didn't want revenge for all the times I hurt him. He wanted revenge for me. He wanted revenge for the Mitch Grassi I destroyed on the day of the reaping, for his best friend. Some people will think he squandered his last act on a futile attack, but even though it was bound to fail, it meant something. It showed how furious he was. He wasn't mad because I hurt him, but because I hurt myself, changed myself. He must have felt something like what I felt when I caught him drinking, but instead of fighting me, he tried to be kind. He tried to take care of me, but I never stopped twisting myself. Eventually, he realized the person he thought I was didn't exist anymore. That's why he hated me. That's why he attacked me. In a way, it showed how much he loved me before.

Some people will think he squandered his last words on hatred, but it was so much more profound than that. Other people will think it was fake, that he was lying when he said he hated me and telling the truth when he said he would protect me, but that's not realistic, not when I already knew he was lying and hiding things before, and not when it makes so much more sense to hate me than to love me. I think he was telling the truth both times. His last words weren't lies. He meant what he said. He meant a lot more than what he said. He explained everything.

He loved the old me, the me that loved him back and would never hurt him. He hated the new me, the me that only ever brought him pain. Everything he did for me, he did in the hope that I could go back to being what I was before, that I wasn't intrinsically changed. Maybe I didn't change at all, though. Maybe I was always this way, and it took dire circumstances to show the extremes of my personality. Or maybe I really have changed, and if I were transported to my old life right now, I'd act differently even in the same situations. Either way, he hated who I am right now. He pretended to accept the way I'd changed, or the way I always was, but he was masking pain and contempt all along.

The Mitch he took care of was a figment of his imagination, a conglomerate of memories and wishful thinking that he pretended was still somewhere inside me. Over and over again, I acted in ways his imaginary friend never would, but he couldn't let go, so he told himself there were two versions of me. It was the only way he could keep loving me when I was making him hate me. I can see now how he was able to be both so patient and so angry. Both versions of me were wrong. Both were exaggerations. All my good qualities and actions, and all the good motives he imagined behind them, he attributed to one side of me, the side he wanted to live after the Games. That's how he was able to forgive me so readily. Everything bad, he blamed on the twisted side of me, the side he hoped would fade away when I didn't need it anymore. That's how he hated me enough to want me to die even if it wouldn't help him. I think there was even more to it than that, though. I think that when he attacked me, he was hoping I wouldn't be able to attack him back. He was hoping I hadn't changed, or that I never was the kind of person who could kill him. He was hoping the part of me he loved, the part that loved him, would prevail in the end. I think if I hadn't thrown my knife at him, he would have let me win.

That's not who I am. The person he cares about doesn't exist, and the person he hates is standing right here in my skin, watching him die. I was out of range of his spear, but his words tore straight through me. "You deserve to die," he said. Just like that, he ripped away all the support he gave me over the past few months and all the comfort he provided during this horrible week. He let open the wounds I inflicted on myself, the wounds he had been covering so long. Why couldn't he have loved the real me? No one could, but I believed it. He let me think the bond we had extended even to the broken, evil wretch I am now, and then he pulled it away. He didn't hate me for betraying him because in his mind, there was no relationship to betray anymore. I was just some temporary inhabitant of his best friend's body who couldn't say anything that would really hurt him. I'm not temporary. I'm me, and I'm messed up, and he's been looking past me, pretending I was somebody else, wishing I were different. I wasn't there for him, but he wasn't there for me either. I wish I had known. I wish I hadn't let him comfort me only to turn on me. I wish I hadn't let him back in. I thought I was the one who wasn't invested in our friendship, but neither of us was. The friendship he was clinging to was a worthless, empty, long gone memory.

When he attacked me, there was still a sliver of hope that I would make it out. It hadn't been clear yet what Kirstie was planning. He thought I might live, and he wanted to taint every memory we made together. I spent so much of my life with him. Twelve years. Twelve years. We were ten when we met. I've known him more than half my life now. He would have taken it back if he thought the old me still existed somewhere. He wouldn't have wanted to hurt that part of me. He's still breathing. If I go to him right now and tell him I'm sorry, he'll fix it. It doesn't matter anymore, though, not when I'm about to die. Maybe it matters to the people watching, though. Maybe it matters to his parents. I asked my parents not to watch, but I don't know if they even got my letter. They might still watch even if they did. Even if they aren't looking right now, they'll find out what happened. Maybe it will matter to them.

"I know where Kirstie is," Antonia says. No she doesn't. It's a brilliant ploy, though, because even if there's just a tiny fraction of a chance she does know, we have to give her what she wants. Stella is picking up a knife and aiming at me. I scream and I dodge. She's reaching for another already. I pull out my last knife and aim. If she throws, she dies. Now all three of us are in a stalemate. My eyes are fixed on Stella, but in my peripheral, Scott is moving. He's picking up his spear. He's aiming at Antonia. Just in case she does know where Kirstie is, he wants to silence her. He wants Kirstie to live, and he wants me to die. It doesn't matter. Antonia knows nothing anyway.

Stella sees Scott and gasps. She doesn't realize he can't hit either of them from so far away in his condition. He probably can't even throw the spear. I take my chance. As soon as my knife leaves my hand, I'm stepping back to the cornucopia for another. She shielded her most vulnerable points, her neck, her chest, and most of her head, behind Antonia, so I aimed for her arm, the arm holding the knife aimed at me. We aren't far apart. My knife cuts the side of her wrist and falls to the ground. She screams and drops her weapon. Before I realize what's happening, Antonia has traded places with Stella. The knife that was against her neck is now at Stella's throat. She's whispering in Stella's ear and Stella is nodding with her jaw clenched against the pain. When Antonia moves, Stella moves. She's protecting her so she won't cut her throat. She has very little skill with weapons, and she's not reaching for one. I take a tentative step toward Scott, and they turn so that Stella is still between us. Scott is pointing his spear at me now. I look at him. There are tears in his eyes from the pain, but he hasn't fallen again. He's so strong. "I'm sorry," I whisper. I still hate him, but I want to do this to give my family some closure, so I'm trying what he did. I'm talking to the old Scott. I'm pretending I'm addressing the Scott from before all this happened, the Scott who got coffee with me every morning, who made me laugh, who loved my eyebrows and my voice, who thought I was smart and always appreciated my humor, and who held onto my ankle before the reaping. "I'm so sorry, Scott." I'm making his good version of me true, just long enough for us to reconcile for the cameras.

He looks me straight in the eye. "Kill me, you miserable traitor."


	37. Chapter 37

[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LdLvp630plc ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LdLvp630plc)

He wants me dead. I'm going to die anyway. It might as well be him. The others can kill each other when they want to. Kevin is stirring already. I take long strides toward where Scott is kneeling. He doesn't move when I throw his spear aside. I lower myself to his level and press a knife into his hand. "I already have," I answer. "Now you kill me." Maybe if I could still live, I would still care. Now, though, all I want is for Scott to be the one to kill me. I face the cornucopia. I sit. I close my eyes. His fingers slide up my spine, catching at every vertebra and stopping halfway up my neck. He settles on a bone, but he can't decide if he wants to cut above it or below it. His fingertips stray to the side of my neck. Why should he make it fast? Why should it be painless? He's suffering right now, and so should I. I almost laugh as he traces out my veins and arteries. It tickles. He rests the knife against my skin. He presses delicately at first, and then harder.

"You don't want to win anymore?"

"I can't win anymore. Scott, please kill me before you die."

"I'm trying."

"You can do it," I say softly. His breathing is starting to sound panicked and his hand is shaking. I delve into my mind and settle on a peaceful memory. I'm alone in my room, sitting in the middle of my bed and teaching myself to play guitar. I'm not looking at instructions. I'm just making it up as I go along. I don't have the correct fingering, but it doesn't matter as long as the right notes come out. Scott steadies his hand. Lemonade, la-la-lemonade, I pluck. He takes a deep breath. I've got something to tell you. Hope you understand.

"I can't."

I wrap my hand around his. "Please."

I never meant to hurt you. Wasn't in my plans.

It's just that when I'm with you, everything's okay

I get that fizzy feeling-

"No."

"Close your eyes. Tell me how much you hate me."

"I hate you." He sighs, defeated. "I still can't kill you."

"Fine." I snatch back the knife and stand. I'll start with Keith. Antonia won't mind if I kill him, and it's best I do it before he regains consciousness. I pause when I reach the cornucopia and turn to look back at Scott. He's crying. I turn away. I don't want to see the moment he dies.

"Attention, tributes!" It's Lepidus Steward himself this time. "You have five more minutes." When did that happen? I check my watch. He moved the deadline forward. Curse him. I move toward Antonia. It doesn't matter if I kill her or Stella first, but I like Stella more, so she'll be second. Then I have to kill Keith. Then... then I have to kill Kevin. Then I'll try one more time to make Scott kill me, for Kirstie's sake, if he's still alive. If he won't do it, I'll end him. Then maybe Kirstie will come out at last. If she does, maybe I can kill her, and if she doesn't, I'll have to find a way to take my own life.

"Don't you dare," Antonia says. "I'm the only one who knows where Kirstie is." She sees already that I don't believe her, and she's desperately trying to buy time to think of a new plan.

"Sure. Sure you are."

"Attention tributes!" I freeze. It's not Steward anymore. "You win."


	38. Chapter 38

It's a trick. There's more. The announcement isn't over yet. How did they even get the voice? Maybe they synthesized it from recordings. Maybe Caesar contrived a way to trick the words out during the interviews without anyone noticing. Maybe it's even live, spoken under duress. I wasn't sure I'd ever hear that voice again.

I don't trust it, but I need to hear the rest before I do anything. Keith sits up suddenly. Unless he's been pretending to be unconscious for longer than he really was, he's missed quite a lot. "If you move, Antonia and I will both skewer you," I threaten. She nods. Like me, she hasn't let her guard down. She's still watching me and pressing her blade against Stella's windpipe.

We wait. We keep waiting. Nothing is happening. Does the five minute deadline still apply? Am I supposed to start killing these people? The Games clearly aren't actually over. There would be fanfare. There would be hovercrafts. There would be one victor. Kevin's eyes open, but he doesn't move. He's smarter than Keith. He looks at me, silently asking what to do. I squeeze my eyes shut. Stay still. Hold tight. His gaze strays behind me to Scott, and a tear slips down his face as he closes his eyes again.

What if it's true? What if we do win? What if I killed Scott mere minutes before the end? Maybe they were just waiting for him to die. Maybe they knew all along they would end the Games early, but not until everything was sufficiently tragic. Maybe they thought to themselves, "Well, that was pretty heartbreaking, so I guess we can let them go now." I hate the thought, but I love it. It would mean it wasn't all pointless.

What if I have to live with this? The seconds stretch out. Kevin sits up abruptly. "Is he- Did... Was there a cannon when I was out?" I shake my head. "Birds!" he exclaims. I hear a mechanical hum. It grows quickly into a roar. Kevin noticed that the birds stopped singing, so he realized a hovercraft was coming. He needed to know if it would take Scott along with Paula and Elias. There are three hovercrafts now, and the first has landed. A small army pours out. They're wearing scrubs. They look so normal. Some are wearing makeup. Some have clean-shaven faces. Some of them are smiling. There's something weird about their smiles, something missing from their eyes. I study the face of the man telling me I'm going to be okay. His lips are turned up. His eyes are happy and comforting. The only thing they're missing is sadness.

They guide me onboard. "Scott!" I protest. They should be taking care of him, not me. I don't care that it's futile. He's lasted this long. Can't he hold on a little longer? Maybe he died after the last announcement, and there was no cannon because it was over. Why couldn't the Games have ended ten minutes ago?

"They're doing everything they can for him." His heart has probably already stopped beating. It's my fault. I did this. I wanted this. Part of me still wants it. No. No, he can't die now. He has to live. I don't think I ever want to see him again, but he has to live.

"Will he..." The nurse looks down and takes a deep breath. The others are constantly shoving me gently, and now they're pushing me into a reclining chair with a layer of paper over it to keep it sterile. I swallow a lump in my throat. "Never mind," I say. "I'm sorry." I shouldn't have asked to hear what I already know. I don't need to make him give me the "we need to be prepared for the worst" speech. It would make him miserable, and I don't even know what it would do to me. I know I need to be prepared, but I'm not, and I don't know how to be. It's not the news that's going to hurt. It's living every day without him, being alive when he's not, and being stuck in a world where he's dead because of me. This isn't standard-issue grief. People will think they understand because they know how it feels to lose a friend, but this is nothing like that. He wasn't just any friend, and I didn't just lose him. It's not going to be a five stage process that ends with acceptance and hope.

A doctor comes in, and the nurses leave. I'm grateful when she starts talking and derails my train of thought. I wonder how long I can go without thinking about it. You're supposed to deal with your emotions, not bottle them up, but I prefer the idea of locking that part of my mind away to the thought of plowing through it. Maybe if there were some peace to be had after facing my guilt, my sadness, my anger, and my shame, I would try it, but I already know what the conclusion will be. I was wrong. I was evil. I was forced to do bad things in a bad situation. It's okay to be upset. It's okay to let out my feelings. I have to try to be better and move on. I can't let it define me. I have to forgive myself. He would want me to be happy. I'm sure any therapist would tell me all of that, but it's not all true, and even if it were, it wouldn't be enough. I do have to deal with my emotions, though, not because it's the healthy thing to do, but because I can't lock them away no matter how hard I try. "Mr. Grassi? Did you catch that?" I didn't absorb a single word she said. I shake my head and she starts over patiently. "You're safe now. We're going to patch you up a little. From what I saw, the stitches don't need redoing, but we'll get you antibacterial ointment and pills. It must hurt a lot. We've got painki-"

"No. Don't morph me up." I'm minutes into the beginning of the rest of my life, and I already have to decide if I want to endure it or let myself slip slowly out of it as an addict. "Nothing habit-forming, please." (Please... How long has it been since I was polite to someone?) A morphling drip under doctors' supervision wouldn't normally be a threat, and I really am in serious pain, but I'm susceptible right now. It's frightening how easy it would be to go down that road. Buying drugs never would have been a challenge, and in recent years, people have been offering them for free. Before the Games, though, there was no appeal for me. I didn't hate myself then. It didn't hurt to think.

I let Fortis die. I killed Cassia. I killed Julius. Kevin and I killed Janice. Scott and I killed Huan. I killed Paula. I killed Scott. I killed Scott. "I killed Scott."

The doctor stops unwinding my bandages for a moment. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I'm sorry." It's not her job to listen to me being miserable. I don't really want to talk about it either, except perhaps with Kirstie. Maybe she'll understand. No, Kirstie won't do. Scott was her friend, and she's hurting too right now, all because of me. "What's going on? Are the Games really over? Did Steward just change his mind?"

"I have no idea what's happening, really. They didn't give us any advance notice. It's over, though. You're not going back to the arena." She finishes unwrapping the last layer of gauze and holds a thermometer strip lightly against the wounds with gloved fingers. "Don't worry about that. Think about something else for a while. Tell me about this tattoo."

"It's a cicada. They sing, like me." They symbolize rebirth. Maybe if I bury myself underground for seventeen years like a cicada, it will be enough to forget and emerge as something different. I could do that. I could find a basement somewhere and settle in. I could write music on a computer for seventeen years, and never talk to anyone on the same side of the screen as me. "Scott went with me when I got it." We talked about getting matching tattoos, but we never did. "I had this picture in my mind of how the Games would end. Scott and I would be the last ones alive. He would tell me when he was ready, and I would kill him. Everything after that was going to be awful, but there was one bittersweet thought that I was going to hold through my entire life. When my thoughts got out of control, it was going to be my final comfort. I was going to get a tattoo of it, a solid ring around my ankle where he held me before the reaping." It was going to symbolize how he never let go of me. My one bittersweet solace would have been that in spite of everything, he held on to me to the very end. "But he took it away." I guess I don't need it now, though. Maybe the anger and hate I feel are more bearable than what I would feel if he really had been who he was pretending to be. "I just thought someone still loved me when I was broken, and he took that away." Maybe I don't need to be loved. I can live without that.

"Forget Scott," she says, spreading a thick layer of transparent, greenish gel across my long wounds. It tingles, and the pain at the surface subsides. It still hurts deeper down, though.

"Sometimes your closest friends aren't really your best friends. Which of your friends went out of their way to find you and take care of you? Which of your friends never lied to you? Which of your friends defended you in the very end, even after what you did to Scott? You say nobody loves you, but that's not true. Look at these." She points at my stitches. "They're perfect. We can take these scars away, but if I were you, I would want to keep them. They're more important than the tattoo you wanted. Kevin loves you, and as far as I'm concerned, that means a whole lot more than Scott loving you."

"Kevin could love anyone."

"Love that's earned can be lost." She wraps fresh gauze around my arm with experienced hands. "This is more wholesome. Don't fail to appreciate it just because it's free."

"You're kind." People used to call me kind. I don't think they will anymore. It doesn't feel right to be cared for and comforted. Society is desensitized to the Games and accustomed to the idea of praising victors, but even as victors go, I'm terrible.

Kevin bursts through the door. He has a bandage on his head. His expression is simultaneously apprehensive and ecstatic. "He's alive."

"Still?" I don't want to say goodbye even more than I already have. I don't get why Kevin is happy. I wish I had better aim. Then maybe Scott wouldn't still be suffering. Then maybe I would have been spared our last exchanges. He wouldn't have called me a miserable traitor and told me again that he hated me. He wouldn't have put me to shame by sparing my life when he wanted to kill me, even after I threw a knife into his chest.

"He's going to make it, Mitch. The cut is only a centimeter wide, and it's barely deeper than his muscle. He's going to be fine."

"You saw the knife. You saw the blood. There's no way that was shallow. He collapsed. He's not going to be fine."

"I imagine he collapsed so you wouldn't throw another knife at him. There was a booklet under his shirt. Just a little to the side and it would have missed, but it was over his heart. It was important to him for some reason." He mentioned it. His letter was inside, and I wasn't supposed to read it. Maybe it's about me. "He wouldn't let me touch it."

"He's supposed to be dead."

"No such luck," Kevin jokes. I smile a little, but I'm stuck. I don't know what to think or feel. I should be happy, right? I've tried and failed to kill my two best, or maybe just closest, friends. I guess I am happy, a bit. If Scott's not dying, maybe Kirstie can forgive me. Scott's family won't lose him. We all made it. We won. All it means, though, is that we get to keep being alive. It's better than dying or living alone, but whatever valuable life lessons I may have gained from the Games, they're not worth what I lost.

Maybe... maybe I have to forgive Scott. Maybe I have to forget what he did and said because of the Games and move on. After all, he's no worse than me. That thought isn't helping me let go at all. "How do you forgive people, Kevin?"

"I think of the times I've been forgiven. I think of everything I received that I didn't deserve." That might actually help. I'm still not sure I'll even try, though.

I'm not ready to face him yet. I'm not ready to see how much we've lost, all twelve years torn down in three months. I'm not ready to find out where we go now. "Do I have to talk to him?"

"No." Kevin looks at his shoes. Something's wrong. Is he unconscious? Was there brain damage from the blood loss? Is he comatose? "He asked me to tell you not to come see him. I guess he needs some time."

I sigh. Me too. I need to sort out a lot. That's probably not why he doesn't want to see me, though, and it's not the only reason I don't want to see him. "Where's Kirstie?" She's so much better at handling her emotions than I am. Maybe I'll see more clearly after I talk to her. Unless she was seriously injured, she had to have been near the cornucopia. They will have picked her up by now.

"She's not here," says my doctor. She's in another hovercraft? "We don't have her."

Why not? "We have to get her! She could be hurt!"

"We can't. Her tracker malfunctioned. We don't have her signal anymore. We don't know where she is. They started searching the forest when she went missing, but I haven't heard anything since." How long has this been going on? Did she cut out her tracker and walk until the cameras grew sparser? There's nowhere to go. She wouldn't do that, but I don't like the alternative at all. If she didn't cut it out, it was crushed while it was still inside her. "We don't even know if she's alive."


	39. Chapter 39

"How long since they lost her?" I demand.

"They called us the night she struck out on her own," my doctor answers. "They thought maybe there was a medical explanation."

"And was there?" I ask impatiently. It's been days since they've known her location.

"Hold on," interrupts Kevin. "What are you two on about? That was her!"

I shake my head. "It was her voice, but it wasn't her." The fact that they don't know where she is confirms my suspicion. "It was just a recording. Four short, echoey words."  _ Attention tributes! You win!  _ Win? The word doesn't seem appropriate for this situation.

"Why didn't she come to the cornucopia, then?"

Why indeed? I can understand why she would keep hidden, but she would have at least come near the cornucopia. She would have been close at the end, and she would have emerged when the hovercrafts arrived. "Because she's dead," I breathe. I don't know if he hears me or he comes to the same conclusion at the same time, but his face falls.

"Maybe she's just injured," he says weakly. "Maybe she was too far away." He addresses the doctor. "What did you find out from her heart rate?"

"I'm sure it was just a hardware malfunction," she responds, trying to sound dismissive. I let my eyes speak for me, pleading wordlessly for the truth. She sighs and takes a professional, slightly detached tone. "For a few hours, she was at rest, but awake and under stress. Her average pulse got faster through the night, presumably because she was anxious about leaving. Then it increased quickly, probably from physical exertion like running. It stayed fast for a few minutes, and then the data stopped."

"It flatlined?" Kevin winces at my question.

"It stopped transmitting entirely. They have GPS information from before it cut out at HQ, and they have cameras, so maybe they have a clearer idea of what happened that night, but that's all the med team knows." The cameras wouldn't have shown anything at all through the dark that night, but why didn't they reveal her in the morning? Her body must have been gone. Gone? Eaten. I hope not. If it was, we'll never know what happened to her. Maybe she just found a place without cameras. No, she didn't go far before the tracker stopped, and cameras are dense around the cornucopia. Maybe the panthers were in the arena already. Maybe one attacked her when she ran into the forest. Maybe it bit her arm and crushed the tracker. She didn't flatline before it stopped, though, and it couldn't have been crushed while she was conscious. She would have screamed to wake us. Even if she was a few minutes' run away, she of all people would have been able to make herself heard, but I didn't hear anything like that. At least that means it was quick.

Now that the Games aren't being televised, they can send search parties and hovercrafts to look for her. Even if she's dead, I hope they find her. In a way, I've been mourning her since she left. Finding out will be painful, but not knowing is just as bad. I was prepared, as much as I could be, for them to all be dead, but now there are tantalizing scraps of empty hope holding my wounds open and keeping them from healing and forming scars. Are they doing this on purpose to torture me? Maybe it's not about making a spectacle. Maybe it's about making people suffer. Maybe that's all they want after what the Capitol did to them. Maybe I deserve this. I tried to kill Kirstie. What right do I have to see her again or even care about her well-being?

The doctor scrawls her name on a piece of paper and hands it to me. "Get this filled when you're home and take two a day, not within two hours of eating or three hours of consuming dairy. And take care of yourself. You too, Mr. Olusola." I wish she could prescribe something that would make me forget everything since the reaping. This is more than I can even begin to process, and Kirstie isn't here to talk to. For a second, hearing her voice announcing our victory made me think she was okay. Nothing is okay. The doctor leaves and I slip the paper into my pocket with the picture of my family. I have a sickening feeling I'm not going to get home to order the antibiotics. I can't help but think I'm not going to see my family when we land, if we land in the Capitol at all. Something is wrong. It's like they're toying with us. Maybe the Games aren't over yet. Maybe they're only beginning.

Kevin is deep in thought, but he looks up when I start searching the cabinets. The sharpest things I can find are cheap ballpoint pens. Better than nothing. I tuck three between my hip and waistband where I can access them quickly. "Don't," Kevin says. "You're safe now."

"Think about it. Would Steward just let us go? Why would they use Kirstie's voice? Why didn't they pick us up as soon as the end was announced? This isn't finished, Kevin." What if they're taking us to a new arena? What if they're going to make us fight in pairs until only one is left? Maybe whatever comes next won't be something I can fight my way out of. Maybe they're planning for the hovercraft to have an "accident." Maybe they're going to vote for a winner and execute the rest of us one of a time. Steward would love that.

"I don't think you get it, Mitch. Avi did this." His voice becomes quiet. "He gave himself up for us."

It takes me a moment to understand what he's saying. No. No! I can't lose Kirstie and Avi at the same time. They can't do this. It's too cruel. I was going to make myself do something worthwhile with my life after the Games, and now I know what. "I'm going to kill him. Steward is going to die for this. He shouldn't be allowed to live." Kevin shakes his head, but he's not going to stop me. I won't let him. Steward deserves worse than death. I'll be merciful, though, since I'm a twisted murder too. I'll just kill him. The important thing is for him not to be alive anymore.

"It isn't fair. I thought they were safe. Avi was never supposed to..." Kevin is melting before my eyes. I wrap my arms around him and he starts sobbing uncontrollably. I've seen him cry before, but never like this. I wish I were big enough to rock him in my arms. I wish I were good enough to comfort him. As I pat his back and hum softly and cry with him, though, all I can think is that Avi wasn't enough. They won't give up all the other tributes for him. They still have us, and they're not going to let us go. As soon as they find out where he is, they'll take him, and I don't know what they'll do to us, but they're not going to send us home. I hope he has a plan.

Kevin pulls himself together after just five minutes, but I keep hugging him. Just because he stopped crying doesn't mean he's better. I keep my mouth shut so I don't say anything to make it worse. He steps away after a while. "You should talk to Scott."

"You said he doesn't want to see me."

"He doesn't. You'll have to talk eventually, though. No sense putting it off. Things were tense between you. It's better to fix it sooner rather than later, right?"

"Tense? Fix it? I was going to  _ kill _ him, Kevin!"

"You and Kirstie found a way to work past that." I cringe at the mention of her name, and he moves on quickly. "You and Scott have so much history. You'll make it work." I didn't just try to kill Scott. Kevin doesn't know even half of what I did to him. I used and manipulated him. I hurt him deliberately. I don't think Kevin realizes either how much Scott hates me, nor does he understand how much Scott's words hurt me. I don't think even Scott understands that. I'll tell him about Kirstie and Avi, but there's no point in talking any more when we're both so angry.

He's in the next room over. The door is open, and he has only electronic monitors and a security camera watching him as he lies on the operating table with his eyes shut. His chest is rising and falling. He's breathing. He's alive. I didn't kill him. There's a little gauze patch over the wound, held on with medical tape. His shirt and jacket are cut open sloppily. There are IVs with blood ready for transfusion, but they aren't hooked up to him. He doesn't need them.

The first aid guide is on a shallow metal tray near the table. Kevin wasn't exaggerating when he said I came close to killing him. The knife is gone, but the cut in the book is only millimeters from the edge. The back cover has a little blood dried on it, and the front cover is soaked, but between the book and the jacket and the shirt, there's nowhere near as much blood as there would have been if the knife hadn't been blocked.

His eyes open when I cross the threshold. His nostrils flare when he sees me. "Leave." I take another step forward. "Get out." I keep walking. He sits up. "Go away before I hurt you, Mitch." His voice is restrained, and I can't hear what emotion he's hiding behind it, but I can guess.

"Avi-"

"I figured," he says tersely.

"We don't really know, but it makes more sense than anything else. There's more bad news, though."

"Get lost."

"Scott, Kirstie's gone." He's been avoiding looking at me, but I have his attention now. "They lost her signal the night she left us. They couldn't find her. She isn't on any of the hovercrafts."

"But she announced the end. How can they not know where she is?"

"They must have faked it. I think maybe they're covering up that they lost her. It doesn't look good, Scott. I talked to my doctor about it, and Kirstie's heart rate went way up for a few minutes just before her tracker cut out completely."

Scott lies back down on the table. "I don't want to talk about it." He covers his face with his hands. "Please leave."

"Should I send Kevin?"

"GO!" Fine. I slam the door on my way out and shut myself in the nearest utility closet to cry. Scott and Kevin are still alive. It's objectively better than what I expected, but it's still awful. I'm not even sure it's over yet. I need Avi to be okay. I need to not be a murderer. I need Scott not to hate me, never to have hated me. I need Kirstie back. I at least need to know what happened to her. I can't explain it. If it just malfunctioned, wouldn't she still have appeared on the cameras? Maybe they called the med team before morning, and then they saw her the next day. They would have fired a cannon for her, though, if they found her dead, and if she were alive, they would have put another tracker in her and the med team would know because they'd still be seeing her heartbeat. She wouldn't have destroyed the tracker herself. Even if she took a first aid kit, she would risk infection, and the forest stretches as far as the eye can see in every direction, so she can't have hoped to reach civilization on her own. The gamemakers could have killed her any way they wanted, so they wouldn't have had any reason to cut out the signal first. The wild animal theory doesn't match the evidence at all.

Paula was nearby. She might have seen Kirstie leaving and decided to kill her before she lost the chance. She would have hidden her body so we wouldn't suspect anyone was nearby. She did try to hide Tullia and Elias's bodies. She would have destroyed the tracker so the cannon wouldn't wake us and give her away. She didn't have a weapon then, though, and Kirstie was armed. It would have taken a powerful, well-armed opponent to destroy Kirstie's tracker and kill her without a single scream. Someone strong, someone who knew where she was, someone nearby.  _ No. Please, please no. _ Someone she trusted.  _ Please, please, please no. _ Someone angry at her.  _ Don't let it be him. _ Someone with an extra reason to kill her. Scott.

I never should have wanted to know what happened to her. That was the night she told us the truth. That was the night she told us she betrayed Scott and Kevin. I feel nauseous. Did he bury her? Did he hide her away to rot? Did he cut her into pieces? He was so angry at her. I thought I had persuaded him to be gentle, for my sake if for nothing else, but I hadn't realized that he hated me and I had no sway with him. I remember what he said the next morning. I hear his words echoing through my mind. I wish I could forget them.  _ "It's my fault she's gone." _


	40. Chapter 40

#  40.  


After knowing him for twelve years, I'm still not sure if the footsteps outside my door are Scott's. They don't walk past. They stop in front of my humble utility closet. After twelve years, I still don't know if the knock is his. He never used to need to knock. What's happened to us? I'm terrified to open the door. Maybe it's Kevin, or maybe it's a nurse, but what if it's him? I have three cheap ballpoint pens, and now a mop and several rolls of paper towel. He was in an operating room. Maybe he has needles, a scalpel, or a bone saw. What am I thinking? It's over. For now, at least. He won't kill me. He may hate me, and if he wanted me to die regardless of whether it would help him win or not, then he still wants me to die, but he couldn't kill me during the Games, and he's not going to kill me now.

"Mitch?" It's him. I wish his voice weren't so painfully familiar. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"Sorry you yelled at me to tell me to get lost, or sorry you yelled at me to say you hate me and I deserve to die?"

"The first one."

"Get lost."

"And kind of the second one. I don't hate you, and I don't want you to die."

"If you've decided the happy, friendly, comparatively innocent Mitch you accused me of murdering is back, he's not." The door is still shut. "It's just twisted, violent, paranoid me in here. And if the old Mitch  _ were _ back, he wouldn't want to talk to you ever again." I don't know what they're going to do to us now, but I'm never going to trust Scott again, so there's no point in leaving room for another alliance. That bridge is already burned.

He opens the door and crouches to look at me curled up on the ground. "Will you let me explain?"

"Will I let you explain why you lied to me and used me all this time? Don't forget that I lied and used you too. You don't have to explain. I already understand. We're more alike than I realized."

"Not really. You're a much better liar than me, for starters."

"Coming from you, that means a lot. At least, it would if it weren't just another lie. I gave up and told you the truth every time. You, on the other hand, got even  _ me _ to trust you."

"I could never kill you, Mitch. I knew that all along."

"You could kill Kirstie, though."

"If I had to."

"What makes me any better than her? Why kill her and not me?"

"I chose you."

"You hate me."

"I don't! I'm not explaining this at all, am I? Even if I could, you wouldn't believe me, would you?"

"You are not wrong."

He stands and leaves, not closing my door behind him. He knows I hate open doors. He comes back in just a moment, though. "Read it. You weren't supposed to see this, but I guess it doesn't matter anymore, and it's the only way to convince you."

He's holding out the blood-soaked first aid manual. I open it.  _ Dear Mom and Dad _ , it says. "Call an ambulance," I read. "If the victim is not breathing, apply 100 chest compressions per minute."

"The letter, you sassy spit wad." He watches my face as I read.

_ Dear Mom and Dad, _

_ I hope you got my letter. If not, the bottom line was that I love you, but I can't come home again. I made up my mind to protect Mitch for as long as it takes and to do everything I can to make sure he wins, no mater what anyone else, including him, says or does. I'm very sorry that I'm not coming back. I hope you understand that I still love you more than ever. _

_ Things have gotten more complicated since then. I'm starting to think more about what will happen to him if he wins, and from the way he describes it, he would be better off not living at all. He still wants to win, but he's resigned to be miserable the whole time. He isn't even really solid on his resolve to live. He risked his life for me. He's been saying and doing terrible things, and they're weighing him down, but he isn't stopping. If I let him kill me, he'll do it, and then he'll never forgive himself. I thought I could protect him until the end, but that's not what's best for him. He would be better off dead. _

_ I'm writing to you now to let you know that I've changed my decision. I'm going to find a way to make Mitch my enemy and I'm going to attack him. It's better for him that way. He won't have to feel guilty his whole life. When he kills me, he'll think he's killing an enemy. I think that will be a lot easier for him to cope with. He can never know, of course, since that would defeat the whole point, but I wanted you to understand that I never really betrayed him. Please do what you can for him. There's a big piece of me in him, and I know you'll still always love him for himself as well. _

_ I'm so sorry for all of this. I love you so much. _

_ Your son, _

_ Scott _

I throw it back at him. "You're telling me you didn't hate me."

He nods. "I am pretty outraged that you tried to kill me instead of letting me help you until the end, but no, I never hated you."

"That's not true. I saw it in your eyes, Scott. It was exactly the same face as when you killed Huan."

"It was hate, but it wasn't for you. I killed Huan, but when you gave me a knife and begged me to kill you, did I?"

"You said you couldn't." Maybe he couldn't because part of him still loved me, or maybe he couldn't because he didn't want his parents to see. He certainly had me convinced he wanted to, though. "You said you still hated me. If you really want me to believe this letter is true, not some sappy story you made up to make your parents feel better when you died, then stop lying to me. Tell me everything."

"I just did, Mitch. What more do you want me to say?"

I wish I could believe him. Maybe I will if he comes clean about Kirstie. "You don't trust me. I get that. I understand if you don't want to tell me. I already know, though, so it's not like you'll be hurting me by telling the truth, and you know I already tried the same thing, so it's not like I have any right to judge you for it. Just don't come to me and act like some kind of saint, okay?" I don't want him to pretend to be made of love and forgiveness like I'm the only one who's ever done anything wrong. That's messed up.

"Mitch, what are you talking about?"

"Come back when you figure it out and want to tell me about it. In the mean time, leave me to suffer in peace, and close the door." He hesitates, but he walks away and shuts me back in the darkness.

It would take this hovercraft days to get back to the Capitol on solar power and reserves, so we transfer to a small, long-distance hovercraft after about an hour. Now Kevin, Antonia, Keith, Stella, Scott, and I are all in the same room. Most eyes are pointed downward, but Stella and I are staring at the others one by one, wondering what they're thinking about. Eventually our eyes meet, and we wonder about each other. I wonder if she killed anyone. I wonder what she'll do now. She gives me half a smile before breaking eye contact and staring at the next person. Maybe I was wrong when I thought we could never be friends in this lifetime. Kevin's really the only friend I have left right now. Nobody says a word for the entire flight.

The hovercraft lands. After what happened last time, none of us buckled our seat belts. The door opens. "Welcome home, victors!" the pilot announces. I blink at the light outside the exit. There's nobody blocking it. The others aren't quite sure what to do, but I spring from my seat and leap out the door. Scott follows my example.

"Welcome back!" Cinna's arms are wide. He hugs me and Scott and Kevin and gathers us around him.

"Cinna," asks Kevin, "where's Avi?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know. I do have Kirstie's address, though." He holds out a slip of paper and Scott snatches it up. "She wants you to visit her."

"She's alive?" I squeal.

Scott gasps at the paper. "She's in jail?"


	41. Chapter 41

Kirstie could be on Mars and I'd still be happy. She's not dead. Scott didn't kill her. I owe him an apology. I owe him a lot of apologies. First, though, I am going to beat him at rock-paper-scissors. He always picks paper first. After a tie, I beat Kevin too, and Kevin beats Scott. I'll get to talk to Kirstie first, then Kevin, then Scott.

She's sitting in the next room behind thick, dirty plexiglas. Her hair is as matted as mine, her uniform fits poorly, and her eyes are red from crying. I speak through a mounted microphone. "Hey, Beauty," I tease. Honestly, though, she's still gorgeous in spite of everything, and I would still be overjoyed to see her even if she had turned into a frog.

"Hey, Beast," she replies. I'm not sure if that's for not shaving, still not having a shirt, and looking generally nasty, or for being a complete monster. She rubs tears from her eyes. "Is Kevin okay? Cinna didn't know anything when we talked."

"Kevin's fine. He'll be in here next, and then Scott."

"Scott?"

"Yeah, Scott Hoying. Tall, blond, blue eyes, decent singer. You may have heard of him."

"But you... He's dead." She says it quietly, like she's trying not to accuse me or hurt me.

"I killed him? No, but I tried. He's fine, though. We all are, thanks to Avi. Stella, Keith, and Antonia got out too."

"Avi? How's Avi? What did he do?"

"Nobody seems to know. I hope he's okay, but-"

"He had better be! Are you sure Scott's okay? That's the best news I have heard ever." Her tear-stained face is radiant now.

"He's barely even hurt. He's not doing much with his left arm, and he should probably stick it in a sling for a while, but he's walking around and everything. He's fine. Now how did you get here, Kirstie?"

"No good deed goes unpunished."

"I'm not asking about jail, doofus, I'm asking about the Capitol! You could be on trial for running a drug cartel for all I care; I'm just happy you're back alive. I was convinced Scott killed you! I had it all worked out. He stabbed your tracker to avoid triggering the cannon so we wouldn't wake and notice he was gone, then killed you and hid your body." She's looking at me with a mixture of shock and concern. "I was certain! Your heart rate went up and your tracker signal stopped. You have no idea how happy I am you're not scattered in little pieces throughout the forest. It turns out Scott's an actual real live angel, though, just like Kevin, and I'm just the scum of the earth. Seriously, though, who got you out?"

"I kinda thought it was obvious, but apparently not."

"Was it Avi? You got him out at the interviews, so he found a way to get you out?"

"What? No. Guess again."

"Paylor?"

She leans back and smirks. "Colder."

"Are you really going to do this to me?"

"You bet I am. How are you not seeing it?"

"Cinna?"

"Exactly as cold as before."

"That is so not helpful. Give me a hint. Show me your arm." I point and she rolls up her sleeve. There's no cut, no scar, and no bandage, just a fat needle mark from where the tracker was inserted. "You're unscathed! What kind of deal did you make with the devil? Wait." I clap my hands over my mouth. "No! You didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Make a deal with the devil! Give Lepidus Steward Avi's location in exchange for your life." The very thought is overwhelming. "Did you plan it all along? Is that why you freed him in the first place?"

"Much, much colder. Absolute zero, really. You suck at this."

That's a relief. "Hey! That was a phenomenal theory! It totally fits!"

"About as phenomenal as your 'Kirstie isn't here, so clearly her bestie killed her and chopped her to bits!' theory."

"Remind me never to tell you what I'm thinking again."

"Honestly, I thought you'd understand the moment you realized I was gone. I'm even surprised you didn't see it coming."

"I'll feel really stupid when you tell me, won't I?" She nods. "Was it someone I know of?"

"Yes."

"If not Avi, then maybe Esther?"

"One of your better guesses, since Esther can do just about anything, but no."

"Someone we knew before Pentatonix?" She nods. "Someone older or younger than us?"

"Older than you."

"Gender?"

"Female."

"Someone with friends in high places?"

"Not these days."

"Someone rich?"

"You could say that."

"Powerful?"

"Definitely."

"I give up."

"Seriously, Mitch? It's right in front of your nose."

"Tell me already!"

"Kirstin Taylor Maldonado."

"Well obviously you were involved, but it's not like you could just walk out. You must have had an accomplice."

"Give me some credit! I suppose you could say Huan was my accomplice, though, and you and Scott to some extent."

"Me? What did I do?"

"You helped kill Huan."

"So your accomplices were one dead woman, one totally unwitting man, and Scott? What did he do?"

"He killed Huan."

"For your plan?"

"For you, numbskull. He wasn't in on it any more than you were."

"You're telling me you got yourself out?"

"Don't be so astounded! I got Avi out, didn't I?"

"Are you going to tell me how you did it or not?"

"Huan and I weren't exactly twins, but there were certain similarities, right?"

I nod. "The resemblance was uncanny when Scott took her body away."

"Exactly."

"So?"

She throws her hands up. "So I pretended to be dead! Come on, Mitch! When I heard the hovercraft coming, I rolled Huan away and took her place."

"Oh. OH. Okay, you're right. I do feel stupid now. I literally saw them taking you away and I thought it was Huan. And on top of that, I saw them take Huan too, and I thought it was a dream!"

"You're a moron."

"You forgot to remind me never to tell you what I think. So they just picked you up and brought you back to the Capitol thinking you were Huan the whole time? And then they threw you in jail for escaping?"

"Ha ha ha no. I'm in jail for first degree murder. We'll get to that part though. First, the trip back. I can't say I'd recommend hijacking a hovercraft with an unloaded gun."

"Back up. Murder? You didn't kill anyone, and it doesn't count in the Games anyway. Wait, are they going to arrest me now too?"

"Would I be sitting here chatting with you if I thought they were? When did you get so paranoid?"

"Probably when an angry mob stole me from my bed and told me to kill my dearest friends."

"Fair enough. Anyway, they picked me up, and the pilot nearly had a heart attack when I sat up. The copilot decided it would be a good idea to attack me, so I knocked him out. That's why my heart rate was up, I guess, and the signal cut out when I made the pilot shut the doors and take off. I stayed in there until I was thousands of miles out of range. It was a rough trip at first. The hovercraft wasn't exactly made for speed, and we had to take a longer route to avoid border patrols, so it took over three days. I thought I was going to have to stay awake pointing my empty gun at them the whole time, but, fortunately, they responded quite well to monetary incentives. I called Cinna up and got him to wire them ten grand apiece from my account, with ten more on arrival. After that, it was a really pleasant trip aside from the fact that I knew you were killing each other in the arena."

"Every time a cannon fired, I was terrified it was you. Now when are you going to get to the part where you're accused of premeditated murder?"

"It's cute how you assume I didn't actually kill anyone."

"Well you didn't, did you?"

"They dropped me off. I waltzed in and waved my gun around. Nobody tried to stop me. They weren't sure if it was an empty one from the Games or a new one, and they didn't really want to find out. I got to the control room, and the gamemakers were watching everything on a ten-foot screen. Kevin was on the ground. Scott had a knife in his chest. You were on your knees, begging him to kill you. I held a knife to Steward's neck and told him to let you all go. That's when he pressed his pretty yellow announcement button and told you that you had five minutes left, the spiteful creature. He was so pleased with himself! He had just shown me how, though, so I announced the end of the Games myself right after I cut his throat."


	42. Chapter 42

"What did she say?" Scott asks the moment I enter the room. Kevin is already running out to talk to Kirstie.

"I'm forbidden to divulge anything," I answer bitterly. "Kirstie wants to tell you herself. I can't blame her for wanting to see your reaction. One thing I can say, though: Avi is safe and sound."

"But how did he get us out, then? I thought I was confused before, but this is just-"

"Incomprehensible." Maybe I've given him anomia by supplying all the sesquipedalian words he would otherwise have to find himself. Maybe he'll let me stay around just so he can speak. I still finish his sentences, I still know him better than anyone, and I can still read his face like music. In many ways, we're still friends as much as we ever were. Something is gone, though, something important that doesn't have a name. We still know each other, but we don't understand each other. We still love each other, but not on equal footing. I still respect him, but I've lied to him and insulted him. I'm not sure whether we can trust each other anymore. Is it still safe to count on each other for little things like paying bills on time? What about getting each other home safe from parties? Can we still trust each other's judgement about people? What about trusting each other to speak up when something's wrong and to be honest about our feelings? "Kirstie also told me to tell you that she will skin us both alive if we don't resolve our issues and resume being best friends within the next half hour while she's talking to Kevin."

"I'd like to see her try."

"Do not underestimate that woman, Scott."

He laughs. "This is Kirstie we're talking about!"  _ I'm _ certainly talking about Kirstie, but I'm not sure what fluffy marshmallow Scott's laughing about. He has no idea. He's only caught glimpses of her. He saw her covered in blood, but he didn't see how she defended herself at the reaping. He didn't feel against his own neck how ready she was to kill me at the interviews. He saw her fight in the hovercraft on the way to the Games, but he has no idea what she did on the hovercraft that took her back. He doesn't realize that she marched into the command center alone and killed Lepidus Steward with a knife that he probably picked out himself.

Scott misjudged Kirstie, but so did I. Even though I saw more of her than he did, I underestimated her. The way she disguised her age during the reaping was ingenious. The way she helped Avi escape was ingenious. Even the way she lied to me was ingenious. I bet the alliances with Huan and Fortis were her idea too. She didn't do much at the cornucopia, but both Fortis and Huan saved my life, even if Huan didn't mean to. It's probably thanks to Kirstie that I lived through the first fifteen minutes, and it's definitely thanks to her that I'm looking at Scott right now. Maybe I could have won, but I would have had to kill Antonia, Stella, Keith, Kevin, and Scott. I underestimated Kirstie's creativity and resourcefulness. Worse, though, I underestimated her loyalty. She could have flown off into the sunset or just helped safely from the sidelines like Avi, but she risked her life to free us. She could have been caught even before getting to Panem. She could have been sent back to the Games. I thought she was like me. I thought she was only looking out for herself. I guess she was, at first, or she would have let Kevin and Scott escape. What changed? Why did she put herself in danger to save us?

Scott's voice breaks through my tangled thoughts. "I'm sorry, Mitch."

"Huh?" I'm the one who should be apologizing. "For what?"

"For whatever you're mad at me about. We only have half an hour, so I'd love it if you'd tell me so I can apologize properly, but whatever it is, I'm really, really sorry. It's the letter, isn't it?" He's wringing his hands. "I did the wrong thing. I'm so sorry."

"You want to know why I was mad? This is embarrassing, but I thought you killed Kirstie. You were angry at her the night she disappeared, and I... Well, she's alive, so maybe you didn't kill her after all and maybe I shouldn't be mad at you for it. I'm not mad about the letter either. I don't even know what to make of it. I'm sorry I threw it back in your face. I'm sorry I didn't believe it. Honestly, though, I'm not sure I do even now. Did you really mean all that?" He nods. He looks nervous. I soften my voice. "Do you have it?" He produces it from his jacket pocket and puts it in my hands without looking up at me. I smell the dried blood on the back cover. It's like rust. There's still a hole in his chest because of me. "I'm sorry I tried to kill you Scott. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I pushed you away all those times. I'm sorry I didn't trust you. I'm sorry I didn't listen. I'm sorry I used you. I'm sorry I lied. I'm sorry I manipulated you. I'm sorry I-"

"Stop, Mitch. You're not sorry."

"I am!" I sound desperate. I am desperate. I don't even feel human right now. Scott put on a shirt and jacket before he came, but I look like a complete savage. It's fitting.

"You would do it again."

Maybe he's right. Is it really an apology if I haven't changed? I look down at the floor and take a deep breath. "I'm sorry for the way I am." I wish I were like Kevin or like Scott. I wish I had changed like Kirstie did.

"Mitch, I'm glad you tried to kill me and use me and lie to me. I'm glad you pushed me away and didn't trust me. You don't have to say you're sorry. I wanted you to win, and I'm glad you wanted it too, and I'm glad you tried so hard. Don't apologize for the way you are. That's the very thing that made me want you to win."

"Don't tell me to be true to myself. I'm selfish. I'm disloyal. That's not good, Scott."

"You did selfish and disloyal things for the Games, but that doesn't mean you always will. I know you better than that."

When the police were taking Kirstie away, the gamemakers were arguing about what to do. They could have let the Games resume. They could have let me kill everyone. They could even have sent Kirstie back. She told me, though, that Kevin was one of the reasons they didn't. When Kevin revealed he was from the districts, the people changed their minds about the Games. A lot of them stopped watching, and a lot of them started protesting. Avi encouraged the movement. The gamemakers didn't want to make the people angry at them by starting the Games back up after they had apparently ended. She said that wasn't the only reason, though. She said that it wouldn't have worked if she had come any sooner. If she had stopped the Games before I killed Paula and wounded Scott, before I asked him to kill me, they might have started them again. They wouldn't have been content without a grand finale, but we gave them one. Avi was an activist, Kevin was a saint, Kirstie was a hero, Scott was a victim, and my role in saving us was to be a deranged killer. "I'm a muderer now. You can't say I haven't changed."

"We've both changed, but we're not totally different people. This doesn't redefine us or overwrite everything else about us."

"You should be angry."

"I am angry." Here it comes. I'm almost relieved. "You didn't let me protect you. And then you asked me to kill you." Oh. He closes his eyes and speaks very quietly. "I was so afraid. Kirstie abandoned us."  _ No! _ "I thought maybe it would be better if I killed you than the gamemakers. I honestly considered doing it."

Is that it? "I'm sorry I put you through that. I'm sorry I didn't let you protect me. And I promise never ever to ask you to kill me again."

"You swear?"

"On my life."

"Wow. Too soon, Mitch. Too soon." He's trying to keep a straight face, but not succeeding. It takes me a minute to figure out why he's cracking up. I swore on my life; if I break my promise not to ask him to kill me, he can kill me. Hah.

"Fine. I swear on my mother, my wardrobe, and even my hair." Joking with him feels so natural.

"Swear on your eyebrows."

"Now  _ that _ is past the line." I cross my arms and glare at him. "For you, though, I swear on my eyebrows."

" _ Now _ I believe you," he says with a histrionic sigh of relief.

"Scott," I say, serious again, "if you won't let me say I'm sorry, then let me thank you." I guide him back to chairs. This is going to take a while. "Thank you for being patient with me even when I didn't want you to be and even when I didn't deserve it. Thank you for all the times you held on to me. It meant the world. Thank you for believing I could win. Thank you for forgiving me. Thank you for being reliable. Thank you for being my anchor. Thank you for protecting me." I'm starting to cry. He's wrapping his right arm over my shoulder and pulling me close. "Thank you for killing Huan for me." I hug him back and take a moment to breathe. "Thank you for not hating me. Thank you for letting me kill you. Thank you for trying to make it easier. You were right. I needed your help. It would have been so much worse if you hadn't lied for me. Thank you for sparing my life. Thank you for putting me first. Thank you for choosing me. Thank you for wanting what's best for me. Thank you for seeing the best in me. Thank you for believing the best of me, even when it wasn't true. Thank you for still believing in me. Thank you for supporting me. Thank you for giving me hope. Thank you for still touching me, talking to me, and even looking at me. Thank you for never abandoning me, even when you should have. Thank you for being in my life. I owe you more than I can ever repay. Thank you so much, Scott."

"You're welcome."


	43. Chapter 43

There was coffee at the training center, but I weaned myself off it before the Games. It's been six weeks since I came back home, and I haven't picked up the habit again. I don't have to wake up early. We're taking it easy. We haven't really decided where we're going or whether we're still going to be a band. For now, we're just recovering. I know where I stand, though. I want to make music again.

While I'm awake, I sing almost as much as I breathe. I love the sound, I love the way Scott falls silent and listens with a smile on his face, and I love the feeling of the resonance in my body as I form the notes. I don't have my band, so I've been recording alone. More recently, I've reached out to other artists. Troye and I recorded the song I wrote in the arena. I've been spoiled working with Pentatonix. Troye is talented, but he can't do what they can, and he's unbearably awkward around me. He's afraid he's going to hurt my feelings or say something offensive. Tori is easier to work with. Her voice is spectacular, of course, and she's more comfortable with me. She doesn't treat me like I'm fragile or volatile, but she doesn't try to pretend everything's the same either. Our duet is beautiful, and we're releasing it as soon as it's produced.

In general, I'm happy. It took a while to get here, and it took longer to decide that it's even okay to be happy, but I'm in a good place. It's not perfect, but it's better. It's only been a month and a half. I thought it would take longer, but it's a lot more manageable than I expected. I have so much to be grateful for, and that's what's keeping me going. I'm grateful for the roof over my head. I'm grateful for everyone who wants to help, even the awkward people who are afraid of offending me. I'm grateful for all the new people moving into our area. They aren't rich Capitol elites who never work. Those have all left to find jobs, and the new tenants are mostly tradespeople from the districts. They're here for new opportunities, and I'm grateful those opportunities exist now. I'm grateful for the food. Anything that doesn't come out of a wet log would make me happy, but I have the means to feed myself however I want. Like everyone else in the Capitol, our savings vaporized during the economic tumult immediately following the revolution, but unlike most, our income went up drastically. Instead of thousands of people with more money than can be spent in a lifetime, there are now millions with a moderate amount of disposable cash- millions who can now afford to buy music. Furthermore, or records are being distributed overseas for the first time as nations lift their embargoes against Panem. Our sales rose steadily while we were in the training center, and they skyrocketed during the Games. No more grubs for me. I've followed Kevin's example, though, and put most of my money to good use. I'm grateful for Kevin, for Avi, for Kirstie, and for Scott. I make a point of hugging him every day to let him know how glad I am he's here.

We all moved back to our old apartments... all but Kirstie. Scott and I are still in our old rooms, and I've cleaned up all the mess left by the rioters. It was good to keep myself busy, especially in the beginning. Scott just watched. He doesn't move much. He doesn't talk to people, and he only leaves home to visit Kirstie and come to our group counseling sessions. He's stopped getting worse, but he hasn't started healing yet. He's still processing everything. Despite his words about not being a totally different person, he's not ready to pick his life up where he left it. I'm keeping a close eye on him and doing everything I can, but he needs time. It isn't easy for him. It's not easy for me either, not always, so I understand to some extent. I'm happy, but I'm also very sad, and the emotions don't cancel each other out. They just take turns. I'm learning to balance them, but some mornings all I want to do is stay in bed and wallow in misery.

This is one of those mornings. I'm sad that Kirstie was denied bail. I'm sad that Scott's not okay. I'm sad that things between us can't just go back to the way they were. I miss performing. I miss Katniss. I miss Huan. I want Fortis back. I want to be innocent. I want to go back in time and do everything differently, to live a peaceful life. I don't want to see Julius's blood every time I look at my hands or remember pulling a knife out of Cassia whenever I cut my food. I don't want to think of Paula anymore when I look at trees. I don't want to see Janice's angry face whenever I hear raised voices or remember Tullia's death when I see lavender. I don't want arrows to remind me of Elias or wedding bands of Ilene. I don't want to talk to the lawyers today. I don't want Kirstie to go to prison. She says it will be worth it, but it's not fair. The minimum sentence is twenty-five years. That's longer than she's been alive.

I set an alarm for fifteen minutes. After that, I'm going to get up and go on with my day no matter how much I don't want to. It will get better and I'll be happy again. For now, though, I'm just going to let my mind wander. Reigning in my own thoughts is tiring. It's relaxing to give in to despair, at least at first. After a while, though, it's painful. I've been here many times since the Games, and the feelings never resolve themselves into a beautiful epiphany. They don't resolve into anything at all. They only feed back into each other. The anger is fuel for pain and the pain is fuel for frustration and the frustration is fuel for self-loathing and the hate is fuel for more anger. I bury my face in my pillow. It's not fair that I have to deal with all this, but, at the same time, I deserve worse. My alarm sounds. I have to get up. I remember the alarm I set on the guns in the arena, and I remember the goosebumps on the back of Huan's neck as she said goodbye. Why did I want to get up? Why should I try to be a part of the world? It's a better place if I just drown myself in sheets and pillows, if I don't touch it. I stop the alarm and I don't set another. I don't deserve to be happy... but I smell coffee. Maybe I'll get up after all.

My door opens and Scott enters. He didn't knock. He's dressed and groomed, and he's carrying a cup for each of us. Maybe he's decided to start getting better. Maybe he wants to go back to what was normal. I push aside the worthless comforter and stand to hug him. I'm glad he's here.

"What's on your mind, Mitch?" He asks that all the time now, and I always answer honestly. Despite his own struggles, he's been keeping tabs on me. I appreciate it.

"You are. You seem put together. You're more together than I am today. I was expecting to be a total mess, and it's hard, but usually I'm okay. Today, though, I'm a train wreck and you're here with coffee. Have I ever mentioned how amazing you are?"

"Only five times a day."

"You're amazing, Scott."

"You too Mitch. I want to borrow your amazing mind for a while. We need to brainstorm. I don't know how I'm going to pull it off yet, but I've decided to get Kirstie out."


	44. Chapter 44

Planning a prison break is a lot harder than arranging a song, but with Scott, it feels pretty similar. It feels like arranging songs that aren't going to work, though. We have lots of variations on a few central ideas. The obvious approach, of course, is to win in court. It could take as long as a year if there are appeals, but this is still the best choice because Kirstie would be absolutely free afterward. Unfortunately, there's no ambiguity in the law that lets tributes get away with killing non-tributes. It's still murder. The trial will determine how long her sentence is, not whether she gets to go free.

Avi contacted Paylor immediately after Kirstie was arrested. She sent back a long letter explaining why she couldn't pardon her. It's within her power as president, but if she granted the pardon, it could be seen in very much the wrong light, as condoning the murder of her political opponents. People would even say she helped get Kirstie out and she was behind everything. It makes sense, but I'm upset that she's valuing the way she's perceived over actual justice. I thought she was better than that. Maybe she thinks Kirstie should face the consequences of her decision.

I try not to, but I can't help resenting Avi sometimes. We fought for our lives while he watched on TV. I know it's not fair. I know he found the location of the arena and that gave us a critical advantage. I know he didn't mean to escape without us. I know he tried to help end the Games, and he influenced public opinion a bit, which in turn influenced the gamemakers' choice to end the Games. It wouldn't have worked without Kevin and Kirstie, though, and Avi's contribution might not even have been needed.

The Games tore me down. I discovered horrible things about myself, and I'm repelled by the choices I made and would probably still make if it happened again. There are still a lot of good things about me, but I'm deeply flawed. I don't want my old self-confidence back. The Games gave me a new kind of self-confidence, though. They were empowering in a way. I know now with certainty that I am  _ capable. _ I survived that, and I can survive anything now. I can make it through the trauma. I can endure the nightmares. I can make sacrifices and overcome hardships to achieve immense things.

Scott and Kevin both feel the same power, even though they think of it in different terms. I think Kevin has always felt it, maybe because he overcame a hard life in the districts. Part of what motivates him is confidence that his work will make a difference. He hasn't taken a moment of rest since the Games. He's been working with the federal government, such as it is, with city and district-level governments, and with international aid organizations to upgrade hospitals across the country now that many people can afford better care. I don't know if there's any hope of pulling him away from this to come back to the band. Meanwhile, Scott's sense of empowerment is making him look for ways to free Kirstie, ranging from bribing the jury to blowing a hole in the prison and flying away to a distant country.

Other countries are a strange, new concept. At first I thought the revolution would topple the Capitol and lift up the districts, and that's basically what happened, but it has also brought a lot of new freedom even to people from the Capitol. Our news isn't censored anymore. We don't have to watch what we say carefully to avoid insulting powerful people. We can communicate with people from overseas now without strict supervision. Life is going to be a lot harder now for people from the Capitol, and despite Heavensbee's efforts, there's still a lot of prejudice against us, but now a lot of possibilities we never knew existed are opening up. It's brave of Paylor to make all this available at once. It's bound to cause problems, but it will be worth it.

The doorbell rings, and Scott lets in a woman and a man in tailored suits. They sit across the coffee table from us and try their utmost not to stare at the larger-than-life black and white poster behind Scott and me. Kirstie's attorneys aren't encouraging. There's no hope of a plea bargain. Over a dozen people saw her kill Steward, and even if they hadn't, there's video footage. With such irrefutable evidence, and with Kirstie's own statement, it really doesn't matter what her formal plea is.

If there's a favorable judge, she could get out on parole in fifteen years, when she's 37 instead of when she's 47. I guess that's something. She tells me it will be worth it no matter how long her sentence is. I'm going to visit her as often as they let me. I want to be supportive and thank her for saving us. More importantly, I miss her. If they would put me in the same prison, I'd be thinking of ways to get myself arrested right now.

The lawyers talk for a while about aggravating and mitigating factors, circumstances that influence how long or short the sentence is. Aggravated murder is punishable by death. "It won't come to that," they assure us, "but the prosecutor is bound to bring it up for leverage." Aggravating factor number one: Steward was technically a public servant, and Kirstie killed him while he was performing his duties. Aggravating factor number two: She was committing other crimes at the same time. She threatened people with lethal weapons. The fact that the gun wasn't loaded doesn't make it any more legal, and even if it helped, she also had knives. She was trespassing. She hijacked the hovercraft illegally. The lawyers have taken statements from the pilot and copilot, both of whom have taken Kirstie's side despite what she did to them. We probably won't bring them to stand, though, since bribery and hijacking still don't make Kirstie look great. The hijacking was outside this jurisdiction, and, of course, was perpetrated under duress, so Lawyer A and Lawyer B hope it will be a minor consideration. (I've forgotten their names already. Wait, did they even introduce themselves? They didn't!  _ Rude _ .) Aggravating factor number three: Kirstie's record is not exactly clean. Nobody pressed charges when she held me hostage at the interviews, but it's probably going to count against her. I told Scott I wasn't actually in on it, and that's on camera. At least we can still argue that she wouldn't have hurt me, though. That's true enough. She wouldn't have killed me unless something went wrong, and nobody else needs to know how afraid I was for my life. The prosecutor is sure to point out that she drew blood, though, and that threatening people with knives to get her way is becoming a bit of a pattern.

Mitigating factor number one: Kirstie was under substantial emotional stress at the time. Mitigating factor number two: Steward was evil. "Culpable" is the word Lawyer B used, but he was way beyond culpable. Unfortunately, he didn't do anything illegal, so this is a shaky argument. Mitigating factor number three: She committed the crime under highly unusual circumstances that won't reoccur. She's not going to kill someone again. Mitigating factor number four: She killed him to save our lives. This seems like a pretty solid argument to me. My perspective isn't universal, though. Kevin wouldn't have done what Kirstie did, and whether or not the jury thinks saving lives justifies murder, the prosecution will argue that Kirstie didn't have to kill Steward to make the announcement. The gamemakers' testimonies will make it clear that things would have happened very differently if she hadn't killed him, but there's more. As tributes, our right to life was suspended under the law, and Steward's was protected. On top of that, Steward wasn't the one killing us directly. We were killing each other when Kirstie murdered him.

Well, that was depressing. We go back to plotting as soon as they leave. Once we've written down every idea we can think of, no matter how bad, we run through the list. Scott is the optimist, and I'm playing the role of devil's advocate. Once in a while we drop the act to point out an argument the other missed.

"Strategy A," Scott says, "is to win at trial."

"She still has a minimum of fifteen years, plus another ten years on parole."

"They might rule she's not guilty of murder because Steward was actually not a human, but a snake."

"I concede that he was a snake, but going by my personal experience, that is not mutually exclusive with being technically human. It remains a murder, and an undeniable one."

"Suppose we make it deniable. Suppose we steal the evidence."

"That sounds difficult." Before the Games, I would have said "impossible." Now it seems quite doable. "Do you intend to steal the witnesses as well?"

"They're gamemakers, so they're rotten to the bone. They'll take bribes."

"They'll take our money and then report us."

"We could kill them all instead."

"Tempting." It's not actually tempting at all. I never want to even hurt anyone again. "Everyone already knows it was her, though, and we don't have someone else to pin it on."

"We could pay off the judge."

"What if the judge can't be bought?"

"Then we offer more money."

"In situations concerning moral issues, offering money often makes people want to do the opposite of what you ask." Maybe we can use reverse psychology and offer the judge money not to let Kirstie go.

"Let's get her out during the trial, then. We create a diversion and she walks free just like Avi."

"We would become fugitives. It's not ideal. Besides, the guards will be better trained. It won't actually work."

Scott keeps presenting ideas, and I keep knocking them down. Grabbing her in transit puts her at risk. Smuggling her weapons will just get her put in a higher security prison. Disguising her as a guard and stealing a security pass won't work because she'll be under close supervision. Changing the laws won't free her retroactively. Smuggling knockout gas into the courtroom during trial is my favorite option so far, but there are a million things that could go wrong, and we'll have to find a way to leave the country. I'm gaining a whole new level of appreciation for the risks Kirstie took. I wish she could help us brainstorm, but I suppose she's already thought about this a lot more than we have.

The more we develop our plan, the more impossible it sounds. While Scott researches whether court security guards have access to gas masks, I start to ask myself what we'll do without her. She's irreplaceable, but we could at least replace her voice. Tori is the obvious candidate, but we're so famous now that even Beyoncé would probably be happy to have a spot in the band. I really don't know if Kevin will come back, though, or Avi or Scott. Maybe I need to start a new band. Maybe it's time to be a soloist. The doorbell rings. Lawyer A left a file behind. I take my time getting up to answer it, and the door opens before I get there.  _ Rude.  _ It isn't Lawyer A on my threshold, though. It's Kirstie.


	45. Chapter 45

#  45.

"What are you doing here?" I hiss, pulling her inside and yanking the door shut. "We have to get you out  _ now _ . How did you even- never mind. Go two floors down and stay in the cabinet under the sink in the men's room until you hear my voice. I'll arrange transportation out of the Capitol. Is it okay with you if I loop Esther in? I don't know how else to get you out of the country." She'll probably end up back in the rain forest if I plan it, or the middle of the Pacific Ocean if Scott does.

Kirstie seems entirely chill, and even a bit amused at how much I'm freaking out right now. Daring escapes are old hat for her. She's smiling like she has everything under control. "Don't tell Esther anything. Listen carefully, and do exactly as I say. Get twenty or more people I know well I'm this house by eight, sharp. Tell them it's a party that they absolutely must attend." It sounds like she's constructing an alibi. "Do you have champagne?"

"No booze." I don't care what Kirstie's master plan is if it involves Scott being in a room with alcohol. As far as I know, he hasn't had a drop since he raided the training center's liquor cabinet, and I'm going to keep it that way until he's emotionally stable. I did a bad job of watching out for him before. I thought because we drank about the same amount and he was bigger, he was in control as much as I was, but I never took into account how much younger he was when he started, how different our personalities are, and how much I lucked out genetically. I'm not taking it lightly anymore. I won't let it become more of a problem than it already has.

Kirstie sees my expression and understands immediately. "Forget the champagne. Just make sure the right people are here. Book a DJ, and get-" She can't go on. Scott just entered the room, and he's smothering her in a hug and lifting her into the air.

"You're heavy, Houdini!" Clearly he has no difficulty lifting her, though.

"No sooner do I arrive than Mitch tells me to get out of the country and you tell me I'm fat! Not so much as a 'Welcome back, Kirstie!' I may be heavy, but it's all muscle,  _ compadre _ , and I will use it to beat you up if you're not careful." She takes a boxer's stance and lovingly punches his stomach a few times, taking care to stay well clear of his wound. Now, though, there's nothing left but a scar and a bit of atrophy in his left arm. I feel bad that my scars remind me of being rescued while his scar reminds him of being attacked. I kept the marks like my doctor suggested, but instead of a tattoo, I got a solid gold anklet. I wear it even when I shower and sleep.

Kirstie really is all muscle, even more so now than when she went into the arena. Besides plotting her escape, there wasn't much for her to do in jail but work out. "I'm going to borrow your shower while you plan the party. Can I steal some clothes, Mitch?" She's wearing her uniform from the Games, not from prison. How did she manage that?"

"Are you sure the police aren't going to knock down our door and book us for harboring a fugitive?"

"Trust me."

"Kirstie, how did you escape?"

"They let me go."

"You're kidding! Do you have mind control or something?"

"Not me! Avi. Don't tell me you've never felt his telepathic tentacles tickling your mind before," she says, gleefully wiggling her fingers around my head. "You two really need to invest in some tin foil snapbacks," she continues gravely.

"So Avi used his mind control powers on the guards and you just walked out? What happens when it wears off? How did you get here from jail?"

"Don't you get it? I'm free! Avi persuaded the prosecutor to drop all my charges. He showed up on his doorstep and made the case in his very deep, trustworthy voice that letting me off the hook when I'm clearly guilty would make the man look like the world's coolest prosecutor, whereas taking it to trial would make him look like the kind of person who loves running over small kittens. Avi may or may not have insinuated that he would use his considerable influence to reinforce these images. I took a taxi so I could surprise you in person, and I'll surprise Avi and everybody else at the party tonight." I don't know whether to laugh or cry with joy. I take back every resentful thought I ever had toward Avi. I guess Paylor wasn't the only person he contacted concerning the trial. I hug Kirstie tight, and she squeezes me back. It's going to be okay now.

After her shower, she comes drowning in Scott's bathrobe and closes herself in my closet. "Where are my hips supposed to go?" she complains from behind the door. "You're literally a rectangle. Boy pants are so weird."

"Hey! At least I'm a fashionable rectangle." She laughs as she emerges. Did she take my favorite shirt on purpose, or do we just have the same taste? I'm putting together a list of guests, and Scott is out getting supplies for tonight. "Your boyfriend is in town! Should I invite him?"

"Erm, I don't really have a boyfriend."

I raise an eyebrow and strike him off the list. I'm not sure if she's going to elaborate.

"Mitch? Thanks for visiting me in jail."

"But of course!"

"A lot of the inmates didn't have anyone. It meant a lot that you came."

"I wasn't the only one. Your visiting hours always filled up."

"My boyfriend never came, though. I kinda shouted at him over text when he wouldn't help Avi escape, but I thought he'd still be around, you know? Maybe he didn't want to date a lifer, or maybe he's not really into psychopaths."

"He's not worth keeping if he can't help with a simple getaway or find time to visit his homicidal girlfriend in prison. If he comes crawling back now you're out, kick him to the curb." She doesn't need me to tell her that, but I'm happy to say it anyway. She deserves better.

"You and Scott and Kevin and Avi all visited, and my mom, and Cinna once, but... I don't know quite how to put this without sounding ungrateful to them, but you were the best. I never felt like you were judging me or trying to fix me. They weren't bad, but it was like they felt obligated to be there. It made them uncomfortable seeing me in jail. They always thought of me as sweet and innocent, and they couldn't really grasp that I'm a killer."

"I just wanted to see you."

"I wanted to see you too." She sighs. "That's why I never told you the truth." She sits on the floor, squirming a bit in my weird rectangular boy jeans, and looks down at her clasped hands. "I'm not sweet and innocent. I killed Steward because I hated him, not just because I wanted the Games to end. Escaping and saving you wasn't part of some grand scheme that I had planned all along. I really did betray Kevin and Scott; I wasn't just waiting to save them until later. If I hadn't seen the opportunity to get out, I was going to kill all of you. I certainly wasn't going to honor our deal."

"Kirstie, I know." Scott may have mistaken her for a marshmallow, but I was never  _ quite _ that blind. "What I don't understand is why you changed your mind. You could have left us to die. You could have flown to the Philippines and spent the rest of your days singing to tourists and drinking up the sun and eating balut, but instead you rescued us. What were you thinking?"

"You were always super melodramatic, like you would feel guilty and miserable forever without us, but the truth is that time heals all wounds, whether you want it to or not. I knew I'd be okay, and that was scary. It would have been like healing a bone without setting it, or letting your scratches close without cleaning the dirt out first."

"Steward was the dirt? You wanted revenge so you could heal better?"

"Not really.  _ I _ was the unset bone. I didn't want to heal crooked and then always think of myself as a terrible person."

That's sounds all too familiar. "Like me."

"Saving you was my last chance to prove myself. Before you got back, I thought Scott and probably Kevin were dead, and that it was my fault for holding them back when Avi got out, but I had the small consolation that I at least tried to help them. I could tell myself I wasn't the same person who betrayed them anymore. I took my last chance, and even when I thought they were both dead and I would be stuck in prison forever, I was glad I did because it was the only chance I had before they were going to die. You passed up a lot of chances, but none was your last. We're all still alive. You have opportunities to change every day, and you're already taking them." I guess that's what I was trying to do when I thought about breaking her out. If she and Scott both think I can change, then maybe it actually is possible to become someone I don't hate. It's worth trying.

Scott returns with a trunk full of party supplies, including snacks, punch, balloons, and, to my horror, six bottles of champagne. He tosses some clothes at Kirstie. "I'm not sure what your size is these days, but I am sure it's not the same as Mitch's. Those looked like they'd fit."

As people arrive, I start to see that six bottles was a pretty conservative choice. Once everybody has a glass, there won't be enough left for Scott to get drunk even if he tries. He's not touching it at all though. Maybe he realized in time. He's enjoying talking to people for the first time in an eternity, and he's especially enjoying pretending to be sad about Kirstie, who hasn't made her grand entrance yet. He's practicing his lying skills. I'm going to have to watch out for him. Meanwhile, I've had quite enough lying. I take to dancing instead, singing along with the loud music.

Kevin and Avi arrive a little late, but bearing gifts: chips and a massive dish of ribs. As soon as Avi sets it on the table, I run up and hug him. "I didn't realize you liked barbecue this much, Mitch!" It's not the ribs. He'll see. I run back to the DJ, the legendary Paige Railstone, and borrow her mic. The people fall quiet as I dial down the music. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the guest of honor, the one, the only, the truly exceptional..." I improvise a pretty good drumroll on the sound board. "Kirstin Maldonado!" On cue, she bursts in from the next room to astonished gasps from all around. Paige bumps me aside and plays a fanfare as Kirstie bows and I start clapping. Soon everybody is applauding, cheering, and rushing toward her. Her mom is the first to push through the crowd and embrace her.

We made it. I've never been to a more wonderful party. I want to hug everyone I see and tell them they're beautiful, so that's pretty much what I do. At around two in the morning, once everyone has left and I've booked a date for a collaboration with Paige, Scott distributes the last five cake pops and holds his up boldly. "To Kirstie."

"To Kirstie!" we echo.

"To us," she toasts, "to Pentatonix, and to tour this summer! What do you say?"

"To us! To Pentatonix! To tour!" I eat my cake pop in one bite, and it's delicious.

"Hear, hear!" Avi cheers.

"I love y'all so much." Kevin is grinning from ear to ear. "I'm in."

"I don't know," Scott says. Forget him. Beyoncé has a good range. She could sing most of his parts. He's not irreplaceable. "Do you think we could push it forward to spring?"

**The End**


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